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#tasm series
nbmlmxreaders · 2 years
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im thinking.,.,.
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thinking VERY hard
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Spider-man and the Moon Knight system, aka the poly ship we never knew we needed
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parkerpeter24 · 4 months
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bloody love . part 4
pairing ➳ peter parker x reader
warnings ➳ hanahaki!au, angst, fluff too this time 🥰 a happy ending (maybe)
w.c. ➳ 2.2k
summary ➳ maybe. just maybe love doesn’t kill.
part 1 | part 2 | part 3
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peter knew now. he didn’t know what to do with the information but he knew.
he hoped you didn’t know that he knew. so he walked into the hallway of midtown high as if nothing happened last night.
as if it was another day.
as if his whole world was not collapsing.
you were cautious around him after that night. he noticed it every time the two of you hung out– if that’s what anyone could call it. but he was thankful that you had at least started getting lunch everyday along with him and ned, just like before.
however, you were almost formal. like you didn’t even know him even though he was still the silly boy who bought your favourite milkshake for you and made corny star wars jokes.
“don’t you think it’s a little too cold now for milkshake?” you asked him, almost letting out a laugh as he placed two of the familiar little milkshake cartons in front of you.
“it never stopped you before.” he gave you an almost challenging look, finally breaking your hard exterior, making you let out a small laugh.
ned couldn’t stop the adoring smile that made way to his lips, sitting across from the two of you. peter had told him the detailed account of everything the second he found out you passed up on that surgery. he just couldn’t keep it all in anymore. ned was the saviour he needed then. but now, peter had to kick him under the table, making that smile disappear off his face.
peter hoped you would tell him one day that you decided to not get surgery for your condition. but then again, would he tell you about his?
he wasn’t sure even one bit.
why were feelings so complicated all the time. he wanted to just ask to talk to you in private but everytime he was around you, he could find words scarce. peter parker, the guy who scored perfect a’s in language, found it hard to talk in front of you.
he was thankful that you hadn’t completely pushed him away because some nights he would still visit your balcony, keeping an ear out just in case your mom’s footsteps neared your room, and the two of you would just watch the few visible stars.
it was the little sneeze that made peter wrap his arm securely around your shoulder, “everything okay?”
you rubbed your nose slightly, “i’m sure it was the milkshake.”
you could almost see the outline of his thin lips through his mask as he pressed them together, “i’m sorry, i was kinda second guessing it too.”
“it’s fine.” you shrugged, hoping you wouldn’t catch a cold.
“it was actually stupid of me, to be honest, i’m sorry-”
“it’s fine, peter.” you tried to assure him but he didn’t seem convinced. you could tell by the way he exhaled, the cold air turning it into a small cloud of mist.
“but i-”
“you don’t have to keep apologising.” you added, cutting him off again.
“but i hurt you.” he suddenly let out, voice almost a whisper.”
“so did i, to you.”
peter swore his heart stopped beating for a few seconds. he knew he was bad at keeping a secret but was he this bad? how could you have found out about his condition? he was discreet and it had been some time since he felt his breath clog up due to those goddamn flowers, “-huh?” was all he could let out.
“you know, how i ignored you for so long?” your voice was as soft as his had been a minute ago, “i was a shitty friend to you, not the other way around.”
“that’s not-”
“no, i was selfish.” you looked up at him, finding the same pattern of web-like structure. it was almost disappointing to see his face so close but not actually seeing his face. you took his hand and carefully tugged on it, “let’s go inside.”
peter followed without another word even if he’d wanted to stop you from talking about yourself like that. he took off his mask the second you closed the curtains. thankful that you didn’t have to ask him to do so, you sat onto the edge of your bed and so did he, following persuit.
it was after a few minutes of silence that peter spoke up, finally finding the right words to say, “you did what you had to. i’m not upset.”
“you have every right to be upset…” you stared at the floor, “it’s none of my business if you and gwen-”
“there’s nothing.” peter cut you off, shifting so that he was facing you, his knees brushing against your thigh, “between me and gwen, i mean.”
your eyebrows were pulled together when you looked at him, “i thought…”
“that was the past. i- i didn’t… nothing happened.”
“oh.”
the silence ensued again, the only sounds in the room being the steady breathing of you and peter. you searched your brain for anything else that you could talk about next but nothing came to mind.
“would you like to go to ned’s christmas party with me?” peter mumbled out, breaking the silence once again.
“he’s having a christmas party?” a faint smile came over your features despite the fact that you weren’t already invited to said party, “sounds nice.”
peter smiled in return leaning in to kiss your forehead. you blinked in surprise as his lips lingered over your skin for a second more. not wanting to read too much into it, you pulled back, “uhm... so, it’s getting late.”
you felt the need to hide your face from peter as the warmth spread through your cheeks.
“right.” peter mumbled before he shuffled off your bed and put his mask, “i’ll see you tomorrow?”
“you will.” you confirmed, opening the window for him to climb out.
your gaze followed him until he disappeared into the cold night of new york.
it was half past midnight when peter climbed through his window, into his own room. the first thing he did was call ned. his best friend answered in a groggy voice from just being woken up, “peter? what’s wrong?”
“ned. you need to host a christmas party.”
–––
“she’s heard every michael bublé christmas song ever.” peter grinned as he looked at you, in his overly christmas-y sweater with santa’s laughing face on it. he held a cup of hot chocolate in his hands because ned’s lola wouldn’t let any of you make eggnog.
“they’re just all too good.” you shrugged, sitting down on the couch.
when peter said a christmas party, you thought the house would be filled with people and the smell of baked goods. but when peter opened the door for you, the only lights you could see were the ones in the living room area, above the led tv which showcased the movie “jingle all the way” paused on the screen.
you greeted ned with a hug and gave him the plum cake you mom had made.
the three of you talked and had one too many hot chocolates and before you know it was time to go home and peter was offering to walk you home.
you walked in silence, looking around at the snow glazed grass.
“thanks for inviting me to the christmas party.” you mumbled as you neared your apartment building.
“thanks for coming. it wouldn’t have been a christmas party without you.” peter remarked, making you laugh and nod in agreement.
“actually, without your sweater, it wouldn’t have been a christmas party.” you chuckled, and so did he as he felt you tug at the sleeve of his oversized sweater.
he sighed in what felt like comfort. you looked at his face for a second before your eyes met and peter gulped, finding the courage to utter the next words that he’d been waiting to say the whole evening, “i uh… i-i brought something.”
you could feel the nervousness swimming in his eyes as you nodded for him to show what it was.
peter dug into his pocket and pulled out a small leaf. you eyed the unmistakable plant and then your eyes flickered to the brown ones that were already staring at yours.
“it’s um… a mistletoe plant… well it was a plant, now it’s just a leaf.” he gave out a nervous chuckle, “but we don’t have to-”
the leaf fell onto the tar of the road when peter had to hold onto the back of your neck. your lips were slow against his and his other arm went around your waist when you pushed yourself against him. peter felt the few snowflakes pause in the air as the world stopped– or maybe it was just his breath– but he didn’t waste a second in kissing you back with the same passion.
you pulled back reluctantly, finding yourself on the tip of your toes and breath short. it didn’t matter. nothing else mattered when peter pushed his forehead against yours, making you get back onto your heels.
peter leaned in again, fingers gently digging into the back of your head as he kissed you this time. your arms went around his shoulders as you held onto him. this one was more rushed than the last. his hand at the small of your back, pulling you closer to himself. when peter pulled back this time, he held you like this, looking into your eyes. it seemed as if you two had been slow dancing.
“i missed this.” he mumbled, making you laugh.
“we’ve never done this.”
“i know. that’s what i missed about it.” and he leaned in again, pressing his lips to yours for a third kiss.
you were so thankful that everyone was busy with their families, leaving the road completely empty of cars and passer-bys for you and peter to make out. you probably wouldn’t have found this amount of privacy in your own room, your cousins lounging in it together.
“i should go.” you mumbled quietly, sighing softly as you felt the phone vibrate in your jacket’s pocket, surely your mom’s call.
peter hummed but neither of you moved, “i can join you.”
you held his warm cheeks gently in your gloved hands, “my mom will chase you out of the building.”
“you’re worth it.”
you gave him a soft smile as he finally stood up straighter, though keeping his arm around your waist, “we have a lot to talk about…”
he nodded in agreement, “we do… and i’m ready whenever you are.”
–––
you’d texted him five minutes before you were knocking at his door. it was wednesday, so may was out all day on her hospital shift and it felt like the perfect time to talk to peter. clear up the air between you two and hopefully… kiss him some more.
it started in reverse order.
you had been in his room for all of three seconds before the consequences of not seeing each other for two whole days came up. peter was holding your face gently, his lips pressed to yours as you two shared small kisses. your hands were on his arms as he guided the two of you to sit on the edge of his bed, “god, i missed you.” he mumbled, moving one hand to the back of your neck.
“missed you too.” you kissed him again, pushing gently so the two of you were laying down beside each other.
peter looked into your eyes, running his thumb over your cheek, “i was so stupid. to not see what was in front of me all along.”
you shook your head, “i was more stupid. it would have been fine if i never caught feelings for-”
“y/n, i love you.”
your eyes snapped up to his, a warm feeling was blossoming in your chest, unakin to the other times. these blossoms felt different, “you…”
“i should have said it before. before you went away.”
you looked down at that, not knowing that the brunette already knew what was going through your mind. he held your chin between his thumb and index, making you look at him, and you gulped, “peter i…”
“you never got the surgery.” yet again your eyes snapped up to meet his soft, brown ones, “i heard you… talking to your mom.”
“oh.” was all you could utter, not knowing what else to say, “so then…”
“there’s something you should know too.” peter sighed, cutting you off mid sentence and sitting up, making you follow suit, “i… got it too.”
your eyebrows furrowed, “the flowers?”
he nodded once, closing his eyes.
“when…?”
“months back… same time you left. i didn’t know what to say then.” he sighed, shifting so that he was closer to you again, “i know what to say now. i love you.”
you smiled softly, “you did not just quote star wars.”
“the fact that you remember it makes me love you more.” peter let out a laugh, pressing his forehead against yours.
you leaned in, capturing his lips in a soft kiss.
“promise me something.”
“what?”
“no more flowers.”
─── ・ 。゚☆: *.☽ .* :☆゚. ───
taglist (been a while, feel free to ignore): @the-girl-in-the-chair @annathesillyfriend @uwiuwi @spideyspeaches @prancerrparkerr @usergarfields @theglitterymess @quaksonhehe @starlight-starks @piscesparker @incorrectsourwolf @wildxwidow @annab-nana @kelieah @arvinsvintage @parkersdahlia @raajali3 @tommyfroggie @ellabellabus07 @holland-styles @1-800-starkindustrie @feariteriu @wittlewowa @20forty9 @skepticalleo
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literaila · 1 year
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lean in, lean out
tasm!peter x fem!reader 
summary: in which peter invites you to a wedding. as his girlfriend. which, evidently, you are not. 
warnings: hahahaha, fake dating trope, pure fluff, peter is an idiot, reader is an idiot, we’re all idiots. 
a/n: let me know how you like it! 
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*
"this is stupid." 
despite the tone of your voice, despite the absolute death grip you've got on his hand, and despite all other things—
peter looks down at you. smiles that same irritating smile. 
you know—the smile that makes your whole body feel... alive. the kind of smile that lights you on fire and doesn't apologize. no, you think. he's not sorry. 
and he's really not. 
"you're doing great," peter whispers, leaning a little bit closer to you. maybe just a little bit amused. 
or a lot. it's hard to tell with how much you hate him right now. his encouragement is not welcome.
his breath on your skin and every stupid ounce of affection and appreciation—it’s not welcome.
"why do i even have to be here?" you ask him, between gritted teeth. his hand is warm in yours. rough. "you could've said i got food poisoning, or the flu. or maybe i was ziplining and the wire broke." 
peter looks forward, but you see the little crinkle of his brows. 
"that's a terrible excuse," he tells you, "you can't just start ziplining. you have to, like, take a course." 
"because that's my biggest concern right now. the course i didn't take." 
peter snorts, but is quick to cover it up with a cough, smiling at the people who turn to stare at him. 
and at you with their evil eyes. 
with their very nice smiles and wonderful table manners. their curiosity towards the man who, at the moment, is tickling your hand with his fingertips.
you try to smile at them.
you're supposed to be keeping your mouth shut, listening to the speeches. 
you're actually supposed to be completely in love with peter. 
which, you think, in the deepest, darkest part of your mind, isn't really that big of a stretch.
"can't we just get kicked out?" you mutter to him, pretending that you're not both playing footsie under the table. that you’re a mature adult and peter is a child you’re just babysitting.
you're winning, obviously. 
"i don't think you can get kicked out of weddings..." but peter still looks around, like he's checking for a sign. 
"you can if you snuck in." 
peter looks at you again, sunken down in your seat and crossing your arms. 
which is what you'd be doing if that was a part of your elegant girlfriend role. 
instead, you're sitting up straight, pretending not to admire how the light catches his jaw--the little concave of his throat. pretending that you didn't stare at him the entire ceremony. nor that his suit has elicited an unfortunate reaction in your chest.
"luckily, we didn't sneak in." peter takes a sip of his water. he is deliberately avoiding your eyes. 
maybe it's the guilt. 
"yeah, yeah," you mutter, into your own glass—your only solace. "these people are your closest confidants. the people you'd want at your funeral, the ones who know you like no other—“
peter squeezes your hand. you can't tell if he's telling you to shut up, or thanking you. 
you honestly can't tell if it's hot in here or if you're just sweating. 
you contemplate chugging your water. 
"shh," peter whispers, but he leans in close again. just enough that you can smell his soap--some kind of spice, some kind of ridiculously addicting smell that you can never quite place. he kisses your head, smiles at someone who is looking at you. 
but you're staring at the floor. 
you're really trying to keep the dumb smile off of your face. 
there are spiders crawling into your brain and making you short-circuit.
"gotta have a wedding before a funeral. and," he says, teasing you, breaking the rules, "you're my closest confidant." 
"how romantic." 
peter moves back. it might be your tone of voice. he glances at you with a raised brow. "i thought this was stupid?" 
"it is," you're quick to answer. quick to throw yourself off of the nearest building. quick to run out of here and pretend that you got eaten alive by wolves. "i'm just saying—if you want to trick all of your family members, might as well do a good job." 
"i think we're a good couple," peter pouts like he's absolutely serious. 
the words want to send sparks down your heart. they want to hurl bowling balls down your stomach. 
but you refuse. 
"this is stupid," you repeat, but this time, your lip twitches. if only minimally. 
peter kicks your foot under the table. he opens his mouth to say something back. 
but then everyone is clapping, peter is looking over to you—you with wide eyes and far too temperamental emotions—and laughing. 
you must look shocked. 
the bride's father steps down from the stage, voice echoing as he tries to collect himself. 
peter pretends to wipe a tear away. 
when you turn away from him—thanking whatever gods there are that everyone is focused on the stage and away from your glowing eyes—you pretend that you can't feel him smirking back at you. 
*
"it's really not that big of a deal—“
you blink. you stare at him. you count to a million in your head, trying not to feel angry. or upset. 
it doesn't work. 
"you told your aunt that i was your girlfriend, and it's 'not that big of a deal?'" your poor imitation almost makes him laugh. almost. 
"she already thought we were dating anyway—“
you think about strangling him. or kicking the chair out from under his feet. "may thought that you were dating the stupid library girl?" 
"you're not stupid." 
"i was talking about the library." 
peter looks almost offended. "hey." 
you roll your eyes. drop your head into your hands. his eyes are warm on you, and you know that he's not going to look away until you say something else. 
until you agree to this stupid plan and pretend that the only reason he's okay with this is that he feels absolutely nothing for you—
it's not that big of a deal. really. 
peter places a hand on your shoulder. when you don't look up, he sighs. and then promptly pulls your hands away from your face. 
he is unbearably kind. smiling at you. 
"peter..." you say, almost relenting. almost letting him win. 
as if this was a game and you were a handy object he picked up along the way. just something to come in later. 
"hey," he says, softly, still staring at you. he's never been afraid of eye contact. "if you want me to call her back and tell her that i lied, i will. i don't want to make you uncomfortable." 
you'd like to mention that the only uncomfortable thing about any of this is how hard your heart bangs on your chest. 
your head lands back in your hands. 
peter pokes the bit of cheek he can still reach. you twitch. 
"or i can tell her we broke up. that you broke up with me. you'd get a kick out of that." he nudges your shoulder. 
you pretend that he didn't just slide his chair even closer to you.
you peek an eye at him. "i would enjoy breaking up with you."  
"ouch." but peter's smiling. "seriously," he says. "you don't have to go." 
you lean up, brows furrowed. "why don't you just find an actual date?" 
you try to say it seriously. like you're not bitter at the prospect. 
"having a first date at a wedding?" peter says, dryly. "no, thank you." 
"you could, i don't know, try actually dating someone. it doesn't have to be the first date." 
"i don't wanna date someone's," he's almost pouting. your lip twitches. 
this statement is a lie, of course, but it fills your heart with a little unnecessary glee. something a little bit like relief. you want to dig a hand into your ribcage and rip your heart out just so you can scold it a little. 
instead, you shake your head at peter. "then don't go with anyone. maybe you'll meet someone there. wedding romances are very popular this time of year.”
peter winces. "i know. it's just..." he blows a breath. runs a hand through his hair, only making it even messier. his sweater is bunched at his wrists. his glasses are hanging at the tip of his nose. 
you want to lean in close to him and push them up. 
you clench your fists. 
"it's just what?" 
"if i go alone then everyone will ask questions." 
you frown. "questions?" 
"yeah." peter sighs, avoids your eyes again. "and then they'll all give me those pitiful looks because 'poor peter he can't move on' and 'may said he was doing better.'" 
you observe his face carefully, tiny pricks of anger hitting directly at your chest. 
"it happens at every family event," peter laughs, looking back at you. "i… wanted them to see that i'm okay, for once. and you know i don't like answering questions." 
you laugh. you move a little bit closer to him, maybe subconsciously. "you don't have to go alone," you say. maybe to him. 
"i know," peter stares at you a second, smiles. "there's no one else i'd want to go with, though." 
unsure if he's poking fun at you or being serious, you choose the safe option. the smarter one. 
"i hate weddings," you declare to him, glaring. 
peter laughs, head thrown back, teeth showing. 
you feel a sense of pride. a tiny little branch growing in your chest—getting bigger. 
peter shakes his head, because he knows you're lying. he's nice enough not to say it. "plus, may already likes you. no awkward introduction." 
you raise a brow. "there wasn't any awkward introduction when i went home with you for thanksgiving."
"because she already liked you." 
"you giving me glowing reviews, parker?" 
he smiles. "no," tilts his head like he's hilarious. "may likes that you called me out on my bullshit." 
you push him, frowning. "i'm very nice to you." 
he rubs at his arm, still smiling at you. 
and then there's a moment where the two of you just stare. just look in each other's eyes like you wouldn't rather be doing anything else. 
you wouldn't. 
but you know peter is waiting. 
you take a deep breath in. 
it might be his stupid smile. or his dimples. 
it might be the way he's pleading with you--without his eyes, without even asking--like it's a secret that only you can keep. 
"okay," you tell him. "but i'm going to eat all of the cake." 
*
peter holds his hands out to you. 
it's late enough in the night that the lights are dim. that his eyes are bright, illuminated by the fluorescents above your head. his smile is soft, his hands are big. 
you frown. "what?" 
"let's dance." peter says this like it's obvious. like what else would you rather be doing right now?" 
you look down at the table, empty now. you look towards the dance floor, full. 
"yeah," you drawl. "maybe not." 
peter pouts. "you don't want to dance with me?" 
his hand is still out, still perfectly intimidating. 
"it has nothing to do with you, peter," you promise. "i don't want to dance with anyone." 
"but you're a great dancer." 
you point a finger at him. "there is no evidence of that." 
"fall semester, last year." 
"how very specific, peter." 
he smiles. he waves his hand like he's very impatient. "c'mon, it'll look weird if we don't dance." 
"you already look weird so i don't see the issue." 
his free hand goes to his chest, in mock offense. you smile at him, so adoring. 
"you dance around in my kitchen all the time." 
"not in heels." 
his face is blank. 
"not after i've just eaten a bunch of wedding cake." 
peter just stares at you. 
"peter," you whine, feeling intimidated. but mostly worried about being any clsoer to him than you have been all night. "please don't make me." 
"this is supposed to be fun." 
you cross your arms. your neck has begun to ache from looking up at him. 
"just one song," he makes a tiny little one with his finger as if that is going to convince you anymore. 
"it's never 'just' with you." 
peter crosses his heart. "scouts honor." 
"that was a cross, not a pledge. and you're not a boy scout." 
"i could've been," he sighs dreamily, looking up at the ceiling like he's got big goals. entire aspirations. 
and then he looks down at you and smiles again. 
and fine. 
maybe you dance with him. 
but it has nothing to do with his smile. you're merely trying to keep up appearances.
*
"when may calls you tomorrow and asks why your girlfriend hates you, just tell her—“ 
peter follows you as you stumble into the hotel room. 
he flicks the lights on and sets your bag down in the hallway. 
because he owes you, you just flop down on the bed. admiring how soft the sheets are. you lose track of your sentence. 
"do you want to shower?" 
"it is three in the morning, peter."
"yeah but you're all sticky." 
you sit up in bed and look at him--peter who has now removed his blazer. who is quickly undoing his tie and staring at you like he's never looked at you before. 
you look down at the sheets. rub your hands together because you're cold. 
"are you saying that you don't want to sleep next to me because i smell bad?" you ask him, scrunching your nose. 
peter slips his shoes off, laughing so quietly that you can barely hear it. he flops down next to you, looking up at the ceiling. 
"i don't remember implying that." 
you crawl closer to him, almost right above him. "it was written all over your face, parker." 
"well," he smiles at you, more amused. maybe delirious. "it's not like i haven't shared a bed with you before." 
you lay back, copying him. your hands rest at your sides, very close to his. 
you blink. the white of the ceiling looks particularly interesting. 
"it's too early to tell if that was an insult or not." 
peter snorts. his laughter shaking the entire bed. 
shaking your entire body from the inside out. 
and then he groans as he leans up, stretching. you close your eyes, refusing to look at him. 
refusing to notice how his shirt has ridden up his back and you can see an inch of soft warm skin. 
refusing to notice how the bed already smells like him. 
and the fact that you're supposed to sleep next to him, all night. 
and that maybe dancing with him left behind some spare anxiety, crawling up your skin and massaging your neck. 
you refuse anything. 
when you open your eyes again, peter is unbuttoning his shirt. 
"are you at least going to get in pajamas?" 
"peter, these are pajamas." 
he snorts. "really?" a shirt is thrown on the floor. a zipper can be heard from across the room. similar to your heart. "because i distinctly remember someone telling me that 'it was the most uncomfortable outfit ever' and 'not even satan would allow this.'" 
you sit up, moving to cross your legs. maybe you stare at him a little. "what?" you gasp. "who would say such a thing?" 
peter looks back at you and smiles. 
it's quite possibly—in the realm of possibilities and three in the morning thoughts—the prettiest thing he's ever seen. 
"here," he tosses you a shirt. a pair of sweatpants. 
how he found those in the vast depths of your suitcase, you are unsure. 
"i'm going to go brush my teeth, moisturize." 
"is that how you get that baby-smooth skin of yours?" 
peter raises an eyebrow at you. gestures down to the clothes in your lap. "change. get in bed. you look tired." 
you frown. "did my makeup smudge?" 
peter stares for a moment, surveying your face. his eyes are wide and his lips are just slightly parted. just enough for you to see a tiny bit of pink. a flash of white.
it’s a moment too long. peter clears his throat. "no," he says. "you--it, um. it looks good. you look beautiful." 
your eyes widen, if only a little bit. 
peter seems to realize this. he seems to run from you, if not literally, then figuratively. "okay. uh, you. change." he shakes his head. 
and then the bathroom door closes. 
*
you're tucked into bed when peter comes out ten minutes later. 
you don't bother to ask what took him so long. 
he smiles at you in the dark—you can see this, or, at least feel it. you're very familiar with it. 
and despite the fact that you have shared a bed with peter before, that you were miles closer to him only a couple of hours ago, you still feel a twitch of nerves as he climbs into bed next to you. 
the covers shift ever so slightly. 
and then peter turns towards you. he knows that you're still awake. 
you know that his eyes are soft. that there are circles under his eyes but he still looks just as beautiful. but he still looks like the person that you're undeniably in love with. 
whatever. 
"tired?" he whispers to you because it's dark. 
these are late-night secrets, see. 
"yes." you whisper back. "no." 
peter chuckles, so low and quiet. 
it's silent for a moment. cars passing by the room. lights shining in through the curtains. 
your heart bouncing across the walls and hoping to land in peter's hands. 
"did you have fun?" he asks, so soft. 
you almost freeze. almost completely forget yourself. "yeah. yes.  i—it wasn't as bad as i thought it would be." 
"i think the dancing really sold it." 
"oh, you mean, you stepping on my feet and me not yelling at you?" 
"uh-huh." 
"that's the testament to a good relationship, for sure." 
peter is smiling. 
you know that. 
maybe because you're also smiling. 
"you should go to bed," you say. "you're tired." 
"i'm really not," peter says. 
you want to lean in closer. something about the dark. something about spending the whole day with him. something about his eyes and his lips and his smiles—which, even now—are terrifying. 
something about the dark. 
"may wants to have breakfast with us," peter whispers to you. 
"yeah?" 
"yeah. i can tell her that you're too tired if you want." 
you clear your throat. swallow. "no. it's okay. i like hanging out with her." 
"yeah?" 
"yeah." 
peter is silent for a moment. he is so quiet that you're almost worried that he's disappeared into the dark. 
but he's there. 
your heart won't let you forget that. 
"peter?" you whisper. 
"yeah?" 
"thank you for bringing me." 
"thank you for being my girlfriend." 
the sentence weighs more than a pile of bricks on your chest. 
you think about the next ten minutes. about how this might be—this is—your last chance. this is it for peter being your boyfriend. even fake. 
it's worth something. 
but peter turns on his side, eyes shutting. 
and so you follow, pretending that you can't feel him, warm, so soft, next to you. 
you pretend that you can't hear his breathing. that all of this is meaningless. 
and you're getting used to it. pretending. 
still, you feel it, about seven minutes later. 
a couple of minutes after you're sure that peter's already fallen asleep. that he isn't plagued by these thoughts, these ideas like you are. 
it doesn't matter. 
it's seven minutes later, in the dark, so early in the morning. 
you feel peter's hand, right next to you. 
you feel him intertwine his fingers with you. 
and peter is warm and soft. rough and cold. 
he is asleep. but it means something. 
you pretend it doesn't. 
you fall asleep holding his hand. 
*
my masterlist here. 
tags:  @moonlarking-blog​ @v1ci0us​ @preciousbabypeter​ @alexxavicry​ @directioner5life​ @random_writer1021
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peterthepark · 2 years
Text
extremely ridiculous
pairing: tasm!peter parker x f!reader
tags: 18+ graphic smut, rough sex, dirty talk, religious themes, partie, nsfw brainrot, blond peter parker, unprotected sex, mentions of smoking and alcohol consumption, swearing, sexualized halloween costumes, daddy kink, some roleplay, fingering, oral sex, slapping and pain kink, mentions of anal, just pure filth with 9k words
summary: ever since the bathroom incident, you’re the first person that peter parker looks for in every party. halloween is sinful, but so is the way you look at him from across the room.
note: this can be a standalone fic but i recommend reading the first part here :) not my gif!!!
missing out? ➤ my masterlist - MINISERIES MASTERLIST
- inspo for reader’s costume! - my blonde ag/peter playlist
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It’s ridiculous how many times you’ve run into Peter Parker at a party. The artificial blond himself had gained an affinity for perfect attendance ever since the filthy, filthy bathroom incident that occurred not too long ago. What was supposed to be a moment to get away from the noise of hyper college students turned into a moment that generated even more noise (or from what Peter keenly remembers: joyous sounds of pleasure) between two spiteful, horny and marijuana-driven third years.
It’s even more ridiculous that you haven’t fucked since said incident. Every time you’ve seen him, nothing but a longing look and a courteous raising of a red solo cup is shared between you. Almost like you were acknowledging each other, instilling a challenge as to who would break first.
How could this be a competition when the two of you had already lost beforehand?
It’s not that you were chasing after him. God forbid you did. Dick is disposable, you know. But something about Peter and the way he absolutely devoured you that night, showed you what kind of gentleman he was, how he set this excessive standard for the next fuck and the fuck after that, made you want more. So much more. Maybe it was the blond, or maybe it was just the weed. Yet, nothing about what happened felt like a bad trip. It felt real, and you could still feel the high of having Peter’s lips on your body and his smoke residing in your lungs.
Honestly, he couldn’t look at a blunt the same way ever again after what you did to him. Blowing into his mouth like you wanted him. Wanted him more than a youthful one-night stand. Wanted him more than a simple bathroom fuck and tangled limbs inside a clawfoot tub in a house that wasn’t even yours.
Peter isn’t one to harbor feelings that last more than a few months, but he can’t stop replaying and rewinding the events of that night. Of you, more than anything — your moans, the hickies he was shamefully excited to wake up to the following day and subtly show off to his friends, how you dared to look him in the eye for the remainder of the party, even innocently smiling his direction as if he hadn’t just bent you over cold porcelain and fucked you till you couldn’t form words.
You’re the first person he looks for at every gathering.
Even now, in the chaos of this so-called “Flash’s Halloween Bash,” Peter scans the living room and foyer meticulously, squinting through the dim lights and tuning out the harmonious cheers at the beer pong table beside him. The infamous red solo cup in his hand has barely been touched. He’s been easing up on drinking lately — can’t have too many vices, recalling his roommate’s advice.
He’s come dressed as a priest, black button-down with the white collar and everything. The person wearing it is far from holy, but Halloween means he could be anything he wanted and no one could tell the truth from his method of pretending. Peter can’t exactly pinpoint where the inspiration for his costume came from, but he remembers watching a specific episode of Fleabag that he just couldn’t shake out of his head.
Peter turns his ‘trying to look for someone while trying to be subtle’ situation into a game, naming every character and every costume he’s seen in the previous years before due to a drought of originality amongst his peers. His friends have come as basic Halloween staples: sexy nurse, sexy lumberjack, his friend and his friend’s boyfriend as Chippendale strippers, and even a sexy rainbow Spider-Man — he’s used to it by now, in fact, it’s good for his ego. Good for suit design ideas, too. Especially now with the blond hair, the red and blue seemed a little overkill. He’s been meaning to don a black one.
There’s one costume in particular he hasn’t seen before.
Hello, sexy nun.
It sounds gross. He knows.
Then said sexy nun turns around and he’s met with an all too familiar face, a face that is practically ingrained into his list of hookups and knocks every other name out of the ballpark. He should’ve known, how could he have not when the outline of your body was basically embedded into his hippocampus?
In the blue-light hue of the room, you spot him the same moment as he spots you.
Peter feels like he’s in that bathtub all over again when smoke effortlessly escapes your bloody red lips and clouds into the stuffy air.
He wants to feel your breath against his mouth again. Hard and noisy, strained and needy. But again, it’s like you’re testing him and his self-control. He’s good about sex. He’s not addicted, but he may as well be when you shoot him a shit-eating grin and casually turn back to your group of girlfriends like you hadn’t just eye-fucked each other from across the room.
He can smell your shampoo from here.
It’s like that for a good portion of the night: second glances and teasing glints in your expressions. It isn’t till a little less than halfway through the party that Peter is able to actually see you up close — hair semi-tucked into the black and white veil that drapes over your shoulders, the skirt of your fake habitat exposing enough thigh and leg to get you banned from a real life convent, black shadow purposefully smeared across your eyes with hand-drawn Petrine crosses just below your lower lashes in a blasphemous spite.
Your group of friends suddenly mesh with his own, sparking conversations amongst themselves as Peter tries his best not to drool over you. He doesn’t know you’re thinking the same. In fact, the calm and collected manner you’ve decided to front is extremely convincing.
Similarly, Peter is eye candy himself. His hair has grown out, especially the brown roots that seem to intermix with the blond dye in his locks. He still looks like a walking temptation. You want nothing but to bite down on the clerical collar around his neck and stain it with your lipstick, make him force whimpers out of you as he hikes your skirt up your ass and take you on an altar of pillows.
Sure, it was just a Halloween costume. But if you really wanted to sell the vision, you’d surely play the part, wouldn’t you?
“Father Pete.” You playfully smirk, leaning into the wooden door frame to announce your entrance. Peter has his back pressed against the wall beside it, a hand tucked inside the pocket of his dark pants.
You take a sip out of your drink with raised brows in anticipation of his reaction. He feigns a bit of surprise, despite knowing that you’d been lingering near him for quite some time already.
“Oh, Sister Y/N.” You don’t make eye contact with him. But Peter makes sure to take in the details of your face, staring intently at your bold choice of lipstick and the darkness around your eyes. He smiles. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
But he did. He had been looking forward to this conversation the whole time.
Your black nails tap slowly against your solo cup. “Didn’t expect you to come dressed as a priest.” Your lips tug into a toothy grin when he fully turns his body to you, standing straighter than before. “Was the Devil already taken?”
“You know, I thought about showing up as an angel but it just seemed out of character.” Peter shrugs, glancing over at you as he pulls out a pre-wrapped joint and lighter. “Not really my brand, to be honest.” He cups a hand by the flame, humming in disapproval when he fails to light the blunt.
You nod, fishing out your own lighter when you notice his embarrassing struggle. You don’t respond right away, leaning into him as you flick the button and ignite the generous blunt between his pretty lips.
Your eyes linger on each other, the flame illuminating the lower half of his face. He teasingly fiddles with the material of your veil before you can pull away, looking down at you with a jutted chin and a pointed nose.
It’s painfully slow and almost agonizing how he avoids touching your bare skin. Refusing to be swayed by his actions, you break the silence.
“Were you expecting me to dress as something slutty?”
Peter laughs hard at that. “Oh, is this not — this isn’t slutty? If I’m honest, nothing’s sluttier than a nun in a tiny dress, Sister Y/N. The church should be appalled.”
He quickly offers you the blunt.
“Been trying to cut back.” You reject it with a bashful look.
“But you’re drinking?
“Well, it’s just punch.” You roll your eyes at the blond, studying how his jaw flexes while he inhales deeply. He nearly falls into you when a crowd of first-years brush past the both of you, his hand hovering just above the small of your back.
Your mind is sent back to when he kissed you in the bathroom.
Peter huffs outward, pupils dilating when you awkwardly pick at the lint on his shoulder. He tries not to think about how your fingertips feel like fire — a good fire, warm and comfortable. Even through his button-down, he feels as if you’re leaving your prints all over his body again. You steal his place against the wall when he shifts to stand in front of you.
“What’s next? Practicing chastity?” His voice is low, his lively Queens accent seeping through his slow phrases as he stares you down with his arm propped just above your head. You bat your eyelashes at him, surveying how he bites his tongue in anguish. “Have you realized you’ve been ignoring me ever since I touched you that night?” He whispers, head dipping down so that his lips meet the conch of your ear. “Did you not enjoy, Y/N?”
“Quite the opposite. ‘Touched me’ seems like such an understatement, by the way.” You admit, matching his breathy tone as you avoid his gaze. “Frankly, I think I enjoyed myself too much around you.”
“Oh, really? You sure you came dressed in the right costume? Not very pure… of you… to confess you liked something that you weren’t supposed to be doing.”
“You…” You stifle a moan when his nose nudges the top of your head. Peter inhales deeply to smell you, making you pause in order to regain your broken composure. You blink back your nervousness. “… you have been eye-fucking me this entire party. As if — as if I wouldn’t notice. That doesn’t make you so nice and innocent either. Does it, Peter?” He chuckles in amusement when you crane your neck at him. “For a made-up priest, you sure do love indulging in sinful things.”
“There’s a reason I’m not a real one, Y/N.” He takes the cup of punch from your hands and raises it to his lips, blunt dangling between his slender fingers as he gazes at you over the lipstick-stained rim. “And there’s a reason why you aren’t a real nun.”
“I guess sex is just too good to let go.” You run your nails across his belt, skimming over the silver buckle. “Is that what you wanted to hear?” A stray bead of red punch drips from his bottom lip, and you’re quick to catch it with your thumb before he can. The liquid stains your skin, and leaves a red trail on Peter’s chin as you swipe it away. “I’m sure you can agree, right?”
He sighs audibly; his crotch presses against your thigh as he steps closer to you. Your voices are quiet beneath the booming bass, possibly mistaken with the beating of your own heart, yet it’s ironic how the first couple notes of Tainted Love play when Peter pushes the cloth of your veil to one shoulder. His eyes wander over your throat, recalling how beautiful the once-untouched skin looked in the wake of his kisses. He smells you again, like he’s addicted to that scent — the combination of your perfume accompanied by the bitterness of sweat.
“When was the last time you fucked someone?” He asks bluntly, looking at you through wispy lashes.
Your breath is warm against his jaw. “Is this your way of asking if I’m clean?”
“No, Y/N. It’s my way of asking if you’ve had sex with anyone else.”
“Other than you?”
“Other than me.”
The word leaves you in a sudden, nervous croak. He hasn’t wanted anyone this much in ages. “September.”
“Wasn’t that the month you and I fucked the bathroom? When I…” His lips hover over yours with a wolfish grin. “Fingered you behind that curtain?” You let out a shuddering breath, remembering how he shamelessly cupped his palm over your mouth and rendered you near speechless. “Just me then, huh?”
“Peter, your friends are looking.”
He steadies himself against the wall, briefly glancing over his shoulder before you look up at him expectantly. “Let them.”
“God, you fuckin’ asshole.” You bite your lip, pushing down a gasp when his hand ghosts up your knee. “What kind of priest seduces a nun?”
Peter grins sinfully, “You call this seducing? I’ll show you what seducing is. I’ll take you upstairs.” His fingers find the black lacy garter around your thigh, similar to the ones that brides would wear beneath their wedding dress. Certainly not something a nun would sport. His gaze flickers up to you, chest stiff from holding your breath. A blondish curl flops in front of his forehead, the little strand bouncing as Peter plays with the delicate band beneath your little dress. He’s trying to differentiate lust from his desire for you, but with the way you stare at him all yearning and doe-eyed, the terms have honestly become one in the same. Peter lets himself break. Just for you. A little bit to spur that nervous demeanor he loved seeing on you. “Tell me, Y/N. Do you want me as much as I want you right now?”
Your nostrils flare at him, because for one: he’s making a show out of this, he’s practically getting off on it — having you in a corner with nowhere to go, almost damaging your reputation of giving in to an asshole’s advances for some dick. You’re not desperate. Yet with him, you want nothing but his towering shadow to swallow you whole and relentlessly, even if it meant his friends and your friends would talk about it behind your backs.
Who cares, right?
But was it always about sex? In the time that you spent only thinking about Peter, not even touching him yet reminiscing over how his smoke filled your lungs and shoveled a carnal path to your heart, did you develop something more than a fickle sexual appetite for the blond?
Another bad decision couldn’t hurt. You speak before you can even register what you’re insinuating.
“Take me upstairs then and maybe you’ll have an answer.”
With that, Peter basically shoves his way up the staircase, dragging you along behind him. Insincere excuse me’s are thrown about as you push past the lingering partygoers on the steps. Neither of you can think about being polite right now, especially when your hand is tightly enveloped in Peter’s. His palm is searing with heat, digits curling around your knuckles as he pulls you into an unfamiliar hallway and what you believe is some stranger’s bedroom.
Immediately, he has you pinned against the locked door. Peter’s hands are heavy on your face as he holds you on either cheek, mashing his lips against yours hungrily. Nothing about it is sweet, nor shy, far from how he kissed you last time. It’s like he wants to jump inside you, make a home out of your mouth and melt as his tongue slips past your teeth and remembers the taste of your saliva. Normally, you would’ve cringed at how hard you were breathing on each other — but that sound of desperation, of obsessive pining, it did more than turn you on.
“Don’t cum in your pants now.” You giggle against his lips, his teeth pulling at your skin as he marks your neck. Your hands swiftly work through the buttons on his shirt, pushing the article of clothing down his long arms before you’re grasping at his exposed chest.
He sighs breathily, a mixture of laughter and embarrassment.
“Of course you’d never let that go.”
“It was hot.” He quickly tugs your veil off of your head, tossing the black material to the side before he runs his fingers through your locks. You still when he taps your chin, urging you to look up at him. “Really fucking hot.”
“You know what would be even hotter?” He smirks cockily.
His bare chest touches your clothed one, making your nipples harden through your dress as he presses against you.
“What?”
Peter cups a hand on the nape of your neck, holding you there as he lowers you onto the floor. You have no choice but to sink to your knees and hold eye contact with the dirty blond, sitting back on your calves.
If he was a preacher, he just made you his devoted follower.
“You shutting up and sucking my cock.”
“You have such a way with words, you know that?” You tease, rubbing circles on the tops of your thighs as Peter deftly unbuckles his belt. “One minute it’s, ‘I want you’ and the next it’s, ‘Suck my dick.’”
You help him shimmy his pants off of his legs and away from his feet, watching it join the rest of his clothes and shoes in the unruly pile by the corner.
“They basically mean the same thing.” Peter retorts, avoiding how he mindlessly confessed to ‘wanting you.’
Whatever that meant.
Your eyes widen when you take him in, fully and intently.
“This is new.”
An elegant spider, specifically a black widow, decorates the alabaster skin of his hip bone. The tattoo is smaller than your hand, the inked legs stark thin and outstretched across faded scars. You wonder how he got them, but you know it’s rude to ask. So you move on, continue to become accustomed to the new tattoo on his lower torso, red lips worshipping the drawing as you kiss up and down his abs with tenderness.
Peter sighs, his ego blossoming when you eagerly pull him closer by the waist and free his aching cock from his boxers. He doesn’t take his eyes off of you, entranced by the reflection of the ceiling light in your pupils and the glittery Petrine crosses on your face.
“Is it just me or are you getting deja vu?” He quips playfully, stomach twitching when you put pressure on the leaking slit of his head with your thumb. “God, because I am… one-hundred percent getting deja vu right now.” His hand splays over the six-paneled door when you replace your finger with your tongue, getting his thick length nice and wet with your spit.
“You talk too much, Parker.” You’ve barely done any damage to him, but his groans roll out wounded and clipped when you wrap your lips around the base of his cock, suckling the skin there. Saliva bubbles from your mouth as you run it across the side of his length, puckered lips staining his fair skin with a sinful red. “Maybe I should shut you up.”
“Keep talking back and your little cunt won’t be the only thing getting fucked tonight.”
Peter watches your irises darken with something deeper than playful lust, something he hadn’t seen when he had you like this in the past.
“And if I do?” You start with a challenging edge to your breathless voice, fist squeezing around the head of his cock. “What happens if I wanna run my mouth…” You swirl your tongue around him to collect the small drop of pre-cum on his tip, your words coming out as a moaning mewl when you swallow the salty bead. “… all fucking night?”
You’re driving him mental. He’s losing it, his urge to just throw you against the bed and fuck you until the headboard makes an indent in the wall has grown exponentially — in fact, that’s the only thing he wants to do right now, until you innocently nuzzle your cheek against him and gently kiss his pelvis. The notion itself sparks something in Peter.
“You really wanna know, princess?” He courses a hand through your hair, your head tilting back with the movement. His cock throbs the more he stares at your face, specifically your eyes, because they’re telling him all the things you can’t say out loud.
“I do.”
“Pretty sluts who talk when they’re not supposed to get their throats fucked.” You gulp heavily at his words. His control is shattering and Peter can just feel his desperation quickly seep through his dominant tone. “Do you want that, Y/N? Your throat fucked raw like a whore?” His brows cinch together, lines deepening on his forehead. “My big cock shoved all the way down, so hard and rough, you can’t talk? Till I leave that cute fuckin’ mouth all sore?”
You whine at that, breaking his glare with timidity at the thought. It makes you damp between the thighs, and Peter takes pleasure in how your skirt has ridden up to give him a perverted view at your black panties.
You stroke his length needily through ever-growing pants. “Maybe I’m into that sort of thing.” You rest your hands around the back of his thighs. He steps closer. “Maybe I want you to ruin me.”
A switch flips in his brain.
“You’ve gotten so bold since the last time I saw you. Do you really want that?”
“Please.” You nod rapidly and sincerely.
He continues combing through your hair, purring at you. “You tell me if it’s too much and I’ll stop, alright?” He bends down, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. It’s sweet, but the moment is fleeting when Peter tucks a hand beneath your chin and the other behind your head to prevent you from hitting the door as he guides his cock between your lips. “Open. Wide. Wider, baby.” He can feel you exhale through your nose when his length fills your mouth. He’s heavy against your tongue, the spider tattoo on his hip bone just within your peripherals as you hollow out your cheeks for him. “Oh, Sister Y/N…” He chuckles mischievously. “Not so much of a saint when you have dick in your mouth.”
Your words come out muffled. “Maybe you need to bless me, Father.”
The blond catches you off guard, thrusting harshly into you. Your eyes screw shut as you gag noisily, and you can’t help but slap a hand over Peter’s upper thigh as leverage for something to hold onto. “You ask, and you — You. Shall. Fucking. Receive.” He snaps his hips into your mouth fast and unforgiving; your nose brushes against his sparse pubic hair before he pulls away, then thrusts back in without giving you a second of relief.
It’s almost embarrassing how much saliva is dripping from your chin, but with how his thick cock is straining your jaw, you’ll take anything to help the pain.
“Oh, you poor thing.” Peter cooes through a laugh. “Taking me like an absolute angel… fucking Christ, Y/N. Wonder if anyone’s fucked your mouth like this before.”
He’s careful not to use too much force, aware of how his differing strength may hurt you in the process.
But Peter is starting to realize that maybe you enjoy the pain.
He guides you by the back of your head, lightly pushing it down his length until you’re blubbering and salivating around his cock. Your grip on his thigh is unwavering, and Peter feels you squeeze the longer he continues.
You try not to count the seconds he keeps you like that, but five becomes ten, then ten becomes fifteen, and your temples are throbbing as the room spins and oh, god — he pulls out, a devilish chuckle leaving him while a loud cough rips right through your throat.
You abruptly sit back against the door, back hitting the wooden surface as you wipe away the spit on the lower half of your face. With red-rimmed eyes and damp cheeks, you gasp for air. Peter continues towering over you, cock in hand, before he gently caresses your jaw in an apologetic manner.
“Did I do okay?” You whisper, voice tight and gaze woozy as you peer up at him. He can’t hide the tugging smirk on his features when he notices how fucked-out you already look.
Nodding, Peter runs a thumb across your bottom lip. “Did better than okay, baby. You wanna sit on the bed for me?” He slips the digit into your mouth, pressing it against your warm tongue. “Let me show you how much of a good fucking girl you were to me.”
You whimper at that. The sound goes straight to his dick as he helps you stand. Peter takes your face into his hands, brushing back flyaways as he pulls you into another kiss. Your hands take to his chest, wandering across his ribs, his thin waist, the broadness of his shoulders. The wings of his back flutter beneath your touch, rippling under your nails when you scratch down his spine. He latches onto your jaw and makes an identical purplish mark to that of the one on his breast.
His fingers find the zipper of your dress, deftly dragging it till it stops just at the concave of your lower back. He helps you tug your arms out from the long black sleeves. Peter’s lips follow the wake of the newly exposed skin, his eyes flickering up to meet yours as he pulls the dress down your soft hips and the expanse of your thighs. He’s on his fucking knees, taking in the sight of your lingerie-clad body.
“Peter…” You sigh at the view of him stroking himself to you. His lips kiss over your knees then the waistband of your thong. His teeth find the lacy garter on your leg, canines tugging the pathetic material off of you. “I want you.”
“I know, princess.” He murmurs, sucking gently on your outer thigh. “Want you too, but you don’t get to rush this.” You yelp when a ripping sound fills the tense air, looking down to find your black panties in two pieces. You’re about to argue with him, but Peter quickly hooks your right leg over his shoulder and impatiently buries his face in your core.
A pornographic moan instantly slips out of you, mouth parting open as Peter flicks his tongue over your throbbing clit. He uses a hand to spread your folds apart, revealing the sticky mess of your cunt when he laps at your entrance.
“You know, I thought about you…” You pipe up breathlessly, holding onto a fistful of Peter’s blonde curls as his mouth works on you. “… after that night, after everything you did to me, I touched myself to you.” Peter groans at that. You take it as a sign to keep going. “Thought about your big fingers filling me up, your tongue on me. Tried — tried using a vibrator and it just couldn’t satisfy me the way you did.” The words fall from your lips without a second thought.
Your filter had practically vanished the instant that Peter put his hands on you.
Peter wonders what else you thought about, what other situations that you pictured him in, if your imagination was fueled by lust or…. maybe something more.
He suckles roughly on your clit, filthy noises escaping the both of you before he abruptly forces himself to pull away from you and pause because too much of you will make him grow absolutely mad. He moves to sit on the bed, chin glistening with your juices.
Your eyebrows draw together, worry and frustration mixing across your face. “Why’d you stop?” He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it. He does the same thing once more before he shifts awkwardly to shake his head, a shy expression dancing over his appearance. “What? Is something wrong?”
You bend down, slowly kneeling between his thighs to catch his far-off gaze. “It’s stupid.”
“I’m sure it isn’t.” You smile warmly at him.
“No, no, I think it is. Feels self-indulgent.”
“Well, whatever you wanna tell me, I’m listening.”
Peter realizes you’ve wrapped your hand around his — fingers intertwined and everything. It’s comforting, but even then, all it does is make the conversation harder for him to get past. He lets out an embarrassed groan, hair falling against his forehead as he looks anywhere but you.
“Can I… can I ask what else you thought about? With me?”
Your eyes widen, because certainly, it wasn’t the question you were expecting. The cocky blond anxiously gnaws on his bottom lip. Unsure and lacking self-confidence for once, it makes you huff in amusement and you use the situation to your advantage.
“Okay, well…” You clear your throat. “There were a lot of things. Where do you wanna start?”
“From the beginning.”
You nod as you move to stand, “I thought about… what would’ve happened if we got caught. The taste of your lips, how I could smell you all over me even after I showered.” You rake your fingers through his hair, similar to how he did to you earlier. “Thought about you stuffing my mouth… with your fingers, with my panties, with anything really… just to shut me up. To keep me quiet. I thought about you…” You swallow, the thought itself makes you wet, but saying it aloud makes you ache. “… fucking me in the ass. Just imagined how your cock — that big, fucking cock — would stretch me out, make me cry and cream all over you.” Peter finds himself looking up at you like you’re God herself, quiet moans leaving him as you wrap a fist around his length and pump him. His middle and ring finger find your cunt, slowly teasing your entrance.
“More.”
“Thought about you spanking me, slapping my face, pulling my hair.” You moan loudly when a hand comes down onto your ass cheek, a pleasurable sting rippling through your flesh. “I wanted you to punish me, to edge me, to fucking call me names… to take me rougher.”
His nose nudges against your belly. His breaths become ragged, noisier and more desperate with each word that leaves you. “You dirty fucking girl.”
“I thought about riding your thigh. Maybe even riding your face, wondering how it would feel to have you at my mercy. I… I just wanna hear you beg.” A strangled growl erupts from Peter. He pushes his fingers into you, your juices squelch around the long digits. “Peter… I — fuck, I wanted you to tie me up… to make me yours…”
“Are — are you not?” He grunts when you squeeze the head of his cock. “Fuck, Y/N… your h-hand…”
“Do you understand what you do to me?” You whine out, cupping his cheek with knitted brows. “I’ve — God, I have one more thing to tell you.”
His hips rut upwards. “You’re gonna kill me, princess.”
“I’ve always…” You chuckle, the sound cut off by Peter’s fingers filling you to the hilt. “… fuck — fuck, I’ve always wondered how does Peter Parker respond to being called daddy?” His hand comes to a halt as his jaw clenches visibly. You hum lowly in approval, massaging his scalp. “You like it don’t you, Peter? Or should I say… daddy?”
He hisses sharply. “Oh, my God.”
“It’s not holy to use God's name in vain.”
“And it’s not very holy of you to call me daddy, but here you are. Tell me again. What’s my name, Y/N?”
His fingers curl into you.
“Daddy.”
“Can’t hear you. Gotta be louder for me.” Peter’s hand picks up the pace, the heel of his palm snapping against your clit as you try your best to stay balanced on your feet.
“Oh, fucking — daddy. Daddy. Please.”
“Look at you. All fucking smug and shit, thinking you got me wrapped around your pretty finger.” He stands up. And there, you remember how much taller he is. You let out a cry when he grabs you roughly by the chin, thumbs digging into the puffiness of your cheeks as he squishes your lips together harshly. His dominant exterior has returned, fingering you faster than before. “You think you’re so smart, don’t you? Do you get off on teasing me? Get off on being called daddy’s good fucking girl?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, what?” You squeeze your thighs together, but the hand that was clasped on your chin suddenly flies across your cheek and it takes you by pleasurable surprise. Peter just slapped you — and you fucking liked it. His breath fans over your pained features, nose nudging gently against your eyebrow as he presses a kiss to your temple. “Don’t close your legs on me. Don’t do that. You know better, Y/N.”
“I’m sorry, daddy.”
He smiles in satisfaction.
This is sinful. Absolutely sinful.
“Get on the bed for me.” Peter pulls his hand from you, leaving you aching and throbbing for more when he licks at his damp fingers. “Let’s see if that cunt remembers how to take me.”
You easily comply, still reeling yourself back into reality from the hard slap he drove across your face. You lay back, hands laid out over your head as Peter unhooks the clasp in front of your bra. It’s convenient, he thinks, but it would’ve been better if he could rip it off of you like he had done to your panties from earlier. He kisses along the swell of your breasts, suckles a faint mark right on the side, before he’s taking a nipple into his mouth and tugging lightly.
“You’re still on the pill, yeah?” He asks, eyes glancing up at you as he gives attention to your other breast. You nod rapidly, biting your tongue as he licks a slow stripe down your abdomen. “Good, because I’ve been dreaming of cumming inside you again.”
“Holy shit.” You gasp out, his words going straight to your sopping cunt.
“All fours. Then I’m fucking you missionary later, baby. Love seeing your face when you cum.” Nothing but moans fall from your mouth as Peter flips you over and pulls you onto your knees, your face falling against the unfamiliar pillows and blankets. His lips trail down your back, past the curve of your hips, then his presence is gone. “Hold on. Thought of something we could use.”
You glance over your shoulder as he quickly pads to the corner of the room, picking something off of the floor.
No.
No, he wasn’t going to do that. Was he?
Peter emerges with the white clerical collar from his priest costume. He plays with it, twirling the stiff material between his fingers. The bed dips when he joins you. His face comes down by your ear.
“Earlier… you said you wanted your mouth stuffed, right?” You nod meekly in agreement. “You said you wondered. Well, now, you won’t really need to wonder anymore.”
He slips the collar between your parted lips, grabbing onto either end to pull you up to his chest. You bite down on the plastic, teeth gritting against it as the head of Peter’s cock prods at your folds.
If there’s a God, you’re sure that Heaven is the last place he’d want you to be. But here, with Peter’s arms wrapped around you, your back to his chest, you suppose Hell and every ring within Dante’s Inferno would suffice.
You just want him. After all the teasing and the filthy conversations exchanged, you just want everything he has to offer you. No matter how painful.
You whisper shyly, “I want all of it.”
Peter stills, admiring your side profile. “Are you sure, baby?”
He nibbles on your earlobe. You can feel his eyelashes against your cheekbone, the smell of his musk filling your senses.
“Please, daddy. Need it. Need it so bad.”
You ache for more of him, his thick head spreading you apart as he penetrates you.
“You’re getting so good at begging.” He takes your hands in his, running them down your breasts and waist so that you can feel yourself. “If it hurts, I need to know. Okay?”
“Yes, daddy.”
“No, no, no. Say it for real.” You’re confused as to what he means by that, but his swollen lips and the weight of his words against your mouth helps you. His brown eyes are kind and sincere, filled with warmth and desire as he looks past your naked body. Briefly, he takes the collar out from between your lips so you can speak clearly. “Say my name so I know you understand, Y/N.”
“Yes, Peter. I understand.”
With that, the blond thrusts into you with one fast motion. The fullness of his cock inside your cunt makes you gasp out in a mixture of pain and pleasure. He kisses you again, tongue delving past your teeth to drown in you and take your mind away from the stinging stretch of your walls. His hand feels light on your face, his features contorted into utter yearning when you return the gesture and touch him gingerly.
“Can I move?” He sighs, his breath once again bringing life to your lungs. “You’re — fuck, you’re squeezin’ me so hard. You gotta stop that.”
You giggle mischievously. “Why? Are you gonna cum prematurely again?”
The jab causes Peter’s eyes to darken. He hums at that, then thrusts harshly into you with flaring nostrils. You cry out in surprise when he stuffs the collar back between your teeth, gagging you. “Wow, who fucking said you could talk like that? You know, Y/N, baby, I could end this right here and right now…” You’re clenching tightly around him, your wetness smearing the back of your thighs and his heavy balls. “… make you walk out of this room all by yourself… your pussy dripping, just aching, because I didn’t let you cum.”
“I’m sorry, Peter. I won’t do it again.”
He pushes you down by the head, fucking you deeply into the mattress. His bottom lip is tucked between his teeth as his hips meet your ass, skin slapping against skin as he spreads you apart with his large hands. “Daddy. You call me daddy. Nothing else, nothing more.” He grabs a handful of your hair, fisting into the tangled strands as he pounds into you. “Taking me so well. Such a fucking bad girl now, yet your cunt is just… fucking hell — shit, you’re made just for me. Aren’t you?”
“I’m all yours. Yours to ruin.”
“That’s right, princess.” He spits into his hand, spreading the saliva across the pads of his fingers before he’s circling your clit with his middle digit. “You’re mine. Don’t even know the first thing about you and yet this belongs to me.”
The comment leaves a weird taste in your mouth, but he isn’t wrong.
He doesn’t know the first thing about you.
But it doesn’t deter you from wanting him any less.
“You’re giving it to me so — so fucking good, daddy.” You pant out, sweat building on your forehead as his cock continues prodding your g-spot. “Love the way you fuck me. Fuck me like I’m nothing but… but a little slut.”
“My little slut.”
You sob in pleasure. “Your little slut.”
“Aw, Y/N…” He chuckles darkly, hand splayed over your tailbone as his thrusting slows. Your inner thighs feel unusually wetter, then you realize what’s happened. “I just made you squirt all over my dick.”
“Fuck, this is so embarrassing.” You spit the collar out, laughing nervously in hopes that you hadn’t ruined the moment.
His lips twitch at that, nostalgic to when he accidentally came from eating you out in the bathtub back in September.
“Personally, I think it’s really hot. Maybe I can make you do it again.” He smiles innocently, leaning over your body to kiss your cheek. His raspy voice is laced with sin, filth dripping from his words. “This isn’t even our bed and yet you’ve made a mess of it, Y/N.”
Our bed.
No, no. Can’t think like that when his cock is still hard inside you. But it’s warranted — warranted when he captures your mouth into another tender kiss that feels too romantic for the situation, too real and too gentle for a quick hookup. He pulls away and rests his forehead against yours, his soft blond curls sticking to your slick skin as you both catch your breaths.
You don’t say anything after, just let Peter pull you from your awkwardly-bent position and comfortably roll you onto your back. He keeps a hand behind your neck, lips wandering over the marks he left from earlier.
“Y/N…” You bring his face up to yours when your name is uttered, thumb drawing circles on his chiseled jaw to show him he has your full attention before he continues. “I…”
“Yeah?” You raise a brow.
He does that thing he did before — mouth opens, closes, the cogs in his brain turn visibly. “I… fuck. Sorry, I forgot.”
You don’t believe him one bit, face softening when you see a flicker of sadness glaze over his pupils. But you don’t egg him on, instead, you caress his cheek with a weak nod. “Okay.”
Peter smiles sheepishly to recover his fumbling. “You’re beautiful, you know that?”
The compliment makes your lips twitch with giddiness, and you poke his sternum with your finger. “Thanks, you.” You kiss his eyelid, brushing back his hair away from his vision. “You still wanna keep going?”
“Yeah, I’m — sorry, I didn’t mean to ruin the moment. I definitely want to.” He shifts, bringing your knees up to your chest as he nips at the backs of your thighs. “I wanna make you cum, Y/N.”
You shiver when he kisses the swollen nub of your clit. The light gesture makes your legs tremble, your hole clenching at the almost-innocent notion. “Then do it.”
He scoffs with a casual shrug. “You’re supposed to ask me nicely.”
“Can you please make me cum?” You teasingly grin at Peter, biting the nail of your thumb as he repeats the pleasurable action, kissing your mound. “Please, daddy? I’ve been so, so good tonight.”
“Not entirely, but I’ll let it slide, princess.” He spreads your legs apart, letting your calves rest on the top of his firm shoulders as he strokes his cock into his fist, using his spit as lube. “Maybe next time, I’ll remember to punish you.”
“Oh, fuck.” His throbbing tip slips in first, the reddened head of his cock is enough to make you whine for more. “God. Oh, my god.”
Then the rest of him follows, his pelvic bone flush against your body as he buries his length inside you. He’s cursing uncontrollably under his breath, filthily watching how his cock disappears into your wet cunt and swallows his prick wholly. He studies the way your eyes roll to the back of your head when he shifts slightly, hiking your legs higher for more access.
“I could stay here forever.” He licks his lips, gauging your reaction as he lazily plays with your clit. “Make your cunt nothing but a nice little place to rest my cock. So warm, so tight for me, I wouldn’t even have to fuck you and I’d be content.”
“I need you so bad. Please.”
He slaps you again. It isn’t as harsh, but the sting is enough to make you behave for the time being. “You know what that’s called? When I keep my cock inside you, but don’t fuck you?”
“No, daddy.”
“It’s called cockwarming.” He spares you the anticipation, slowly drilling his length into you until a string of moans escape your quivering frame. “And that’s what I do to sluts who don’t know how to act right. Maybe it’ll teach you a thing or two.”
“I’ll be a good girl.”
“You better, or else I won’t make you cum.” He keeps a hand on your hip, the other wraps softly around your calf. “I was being nice when I fucked you in the bathroom. Here, now, you’re gettin’ a bit too comfortable with my kindness.” He pulls his hands away from your body, resting each palm on either side of your head as he hovers over you. “Earn it. Earn your fucking reward.”
At this point, neither of you care how loud your moans have been. Peter’s practically a moaning mess when you start to fuck yourself on his cock. Your breasts bounce with each desperate motion. You’re not sure how much longer you can take, but you want every minute with Peter to last.
“Can you feel me?” You breathe out, cupping the blond’s face as you gaze up into his starry eyes. “Can you feel my pussy milking you?”
“Fuck, baby — yeah, I can. Not gonna be so tight when we’re finished, aren’t you?” He says through a whimper, meeting your cunt with his hard strokes. “Maybe I’ll need to fuck something tighter…”
“Oh, my god.” Your face heats up at the thought.
“Like your ass.”
“Fucking hell, Peter.”
“Mhm, you want that. I know you do. Makin’ a real mess here, Y/N.” He gestures to the sticky mess on his lower stomach as your juices continue to coat his cock. “Just by me saying I wanna fuck your ass? Can’t help but wonder what else could happen if I actually did.”
The ache in your cunt grows stronger as Peter quickens his thrusts. Your skin is red with irritation from the action of his skin slapping against yours. Peter’s fingers make indents in your stomach as he guides your body to meet his.
“Whore.” You whisper, recalling the nicknames you used on each other from before.
He can’t help but smile. “Slut.”
“Show me next time…” You fist the bedsheets, nose scrunching up as you snarl desperately at him. “Next time you fuck me, we can try all the things I said I wanted you to do to me.”
Next time, he thinks. Your words echo through his mind.
Peter’s movements grow sloppier. He buries his face by the crook of your neck, mouth falling open in wanton satisfaction.
“Fuck, Y/N. Oh, fuck. You — you feel so goddamn good. Baby, I can’t… can’t get enough of you…” You can feel him falling apart. Peter’s soft voice is an instant giveaway, based on how his deep groans suddenly turn into needy whimpers. “I don’t wanna do this with anyone but you. You don’t understand how fucking good you are to me — how this cunt just milks me and milks me… could fill you up for days if you’d let me.”
I don’t wanna do this with anyone but you.
If you’d let me.
His words find your heart more than the space between your legs.
“Peter, I’m so close… fuck, I’m — right there, please. Yes, right there!” You cry out, shaking your head through a blubbering sob as his finger circles your clit. The combined pressure and the harsh pounding of his cock sends you into a frenzy, incoherent sentences leaving your mouth as Peter moans shamelessly above you.
“There we go, look at you. Look at you, princess. Feels n-nice, doesn’t it? I bet you’re so close.” His words are shaky, his own release approaching as your cunt flutters periodically around him.
Your mouth hovers over his lips, mouths searching for each other in the dim light as he tries to kiss you. “Tell me if I’ve been a good girl.”
“The best girl. You’re my best girl, princess. Taking my cock like a champ, taking it like you’re made for it.” His eager praises push you closer to the edge. “Oh, baby. You’re shaking. You wanna cum so bad, that your body is practically beggin’ daddy to give you an out. I think you’ve been an angel tonight. A little rebellious…” He chuckles, before inhaling deeply. “But I think you’ve shown me how well you can behave. That’s all daddy wants from you, Y/N.” He kisses your temple, then your cheek, your jaw, until he’s tugging at your bottom lip with yearning. “Oh, fuck. Cum all you want for me. You’ve earned it, sweetheart.”
“I’m — I’m… please, Peter!”
“Shit, you’re so tight. Jesus, Y/N, I’m gonna…”
“I’m cumming!” You sob loudly, forehead resting against Peter’s as you crudely moan together in tandem.
His cock is pulsating inside you, his spill painting the walls of your cunt with a milky white as you unforgivingly squeeze the cum right out of him. Peter whines your name with closed eyes. The intensity of your orgasms leave you spent, nothing but an exchange of pants and satisfied groans fill the sex-scented air as you clutch Peter’s shoulder. He leaves a path of kisses across your collarbone, his nose bumping against yours before he explores your mouth yet again.
“Shit…” He whispers, wincing at your reaction when he tries pulling out. “Sorry, sorry.”
“S’alright.” You sit up on your forearms, eyes dancing over Peter’s face as he watches his cum seep out of you. “God, you weren’t kidding when you said the bed is a mess.” You laugh with an embarrassed look, rubbing your neck as Peter moves to lay beside you.
He sighs loudly and rests his hands over his stomach. “Yeah, I feel really bad for whoever’s sleeping here tonight.”
“You’re an asshole for that.”
“Oi, don’t get me started on you, freak.” He teases, flicking your side as you tuck your head between his chest and his arm. The laugh that runs through your body is innocent and sincere. Peter can feel the warm rumble of your giggle in his chest, and his heart grows fonder at the sight of you exhausted and sleepy.
“Hey, I…”
“Y/N…”
You chuckle awkwardly at each other, tearing your gazes away from one another’s faces as you recollect your thoughts.
“Sorry, you first.” You offer, gesturing at him with an open hand.
“No, you. Please.” His thumb begins to trace the visible veins on your wrist. Peter finds pleasure in how your small hand fits in his, fingers twitching against his knuckles as you swallow with uncertainty.
“Earlier…” The word already makes Peter anxious. “You said my name, like you wanted to tell me something.”
“Yeah?”
You continue despite knowing it sounds stupid aloud, especially when the blond’s eyes intently lock onto your face.
“But then, you told me that you forgot.” He nods in acknowledgment. “Did you — did you remember what it was?”
You can feel his body tense beneath you. He shifts, running a hand through his hair as he stares up at the ceiling nervously.
“I never forgot, I just… dunno. Don’t think it’s something I can say to you.”
“Oh, okay. Is it, uh, like a thing? Like a frat thing? Or…”
Peter huffs at that, counting the seconds that pass by as he tries to think of something in response. “No, it’s more of a…” He sighs again, and you look up at him. “It’s about a girl.”
“Oh.” Your face falls. You have no right to feel bad, but every bone in your body goes limp with complete disappointment.
“And, I’m not entirely sure how she feels about me.”
“Uhuh.” You try to tune him out, realizing that your awful decisions have finally caught up to you as he continues onward.
At this point, you don’t want to listen. You know it’ll only make you angry, but Peter doesn’t take the hint, not even when you sit up and defensively pull your knees to your chest. In fact, he mirrors you, using a blanket to cover his indecency despite the established intimacy between the two of you.
Maybe it wasn’t intimacy.
There’s a fine line between that and… fucking, you suppose.
“I don’t think she really likes me as a person, and I… I don’t really know much about her, because she’s — she’s cool, and she keeps to herself most of the time. And I don’t see her often. But when I do…” He looks over at you, admiring how your gaze softens as he speaks almost cautiously. “When I do see her, I think of what it would be like to get to know her.”
“I’m not sure if I’m the right person to talk to about this kind of stuff.” You shrug with an irritated scoff, crossing your arms over your chest as you narrow your eyes at him.
He’s upset you. But Peter continues, knowing that you’re smart enough to recognize the underlying meaning of his dumb words. “I haven’t taken her on a date. I don’t even know her — her last name or her major, or what kind of food she likes.”
“Well, that’s the whole point of going on a date. Peter, is this really what you wanted to tell me?” You break eye contact, putting up another wall as you get up to collect your clothing.
“Y/N. Stop what you’re doing and look at me.”
You turn to him with a clenched jaw and wide eyes. “I don’t understand you.”
“I don’t know the first thing about her. But I want to, if she’d let me.”
If you’d let me.
The familiar phrase from earlier sinks in. Oh.
“Are you…” You laugh, more out of fear rather than actual humor. “Are you talking about me?“
“Yes, you dumbass.” Peter drags a heavy hand across his face, cupping it over his eyes as he avoids your shocked glare.
He can’t be serious. You know how cruel fratboys can be, so you choose not to believe him. “Peter, I-I don’t even know you.”
“I know, and I…” He groans in frustration. “I know I’ve probably ruined everything by hooking up with you, and — and I don’t normally find myself crushing on the people I have sex with… but I… I don’t know, Y/N. I’m a dick, and I’m sorry. So if you wanna forget about what I said, that’s fine. I just wanted to — to tell you. For closure.”
“You’re genuine?”
“Why would I be lying?”
“Because…” You scowl stubbornly, covering your breasts with the cloth of your dress. “Because you’re blond and an asshole.”
He laughs.
You do, too.
“Listen, I know what we have is unconventional. Like the most unconventional thing to base a relationship off of. And I’m not saying we even need to have a relationship, I just… I think I like you. And I wanna know everything about you.”
“Okay.” You slip your dress on, flexible fingers pulling the zipper up before you pick up your shoes and veil.
“Okay.”
You smile playfully. “That’s it?”
“What — what do you mean ‘that’s it?’ I said everything I wanted to say.” You slowly nod at that, grinning as you unlock the bedroom door. Peter watches anxiously as you linger by the doorway, your body wedged between the open crack.
The corners of your lips tug upwards.
“I don’t want you to become a stranger.”
The confession makes Peter feel weak in the knees. “I don’t want that, either.”
“Then you can start by asking for my number, Parker.”
A humorous huff escapes him. His shoulders deflate, a relieved chuckle whistling through his teeth.
“Can I get your number?”
You share a look of fondness in the midst of your distance.
Although the drumming music from downstairs feels loud and the chatter of people grows livelier with each long minute, it isn’t enough to drown the romantic tension between you and the bright-eyed blond. You step back into the room with him, shutting the door behind you. Peter doesn’t move an inch from where he stands, eyes trained on you as you take a pen from the desk by the closet and retrieve the clerical collar of his costume off the ground.
You scribble messily onto the white material, ink staining your fingers before you quietly hand the collar back to him.
“Think I’d like to know a little more about you, too.”
Peter smiles vibrantly. “You just ruined my Halloween costume.”
“Yeah, and you ruined my makeup. What else is new?” You nudge him, stepping closer towards him. “You should really get dressed before someone finds us here.”
He peers down at you, adoringly. “Oh, really?”
You get lost in the way he looks at you. “Yeah, never a good thing to get caught.”
“Mmm, I’m sure you know.” Simultaneously, your eyes linger on each other’s lips. Peter lifts a hand to caress your cheek. His thumb travels down your jawline, cradling your chin in his palm as he presses a chaste kiss to your forehead.
“Don’t be a stranger, Peter. Call me.”
His words are gentle, coming out as sheepish yet playful against your skin. “From a scale of one to ten, how much do you like me?”
“Negative.”
“That’s what you said last time.”
“Well, last time was different.” His face nears yours, lips hovering over one another yet again with giddy smiles. “But you’re still the same blond asshole I met in the bathroom.”
“You are extremely ridiculous, you know that?”
“Doesn’t that make you want me more?”
“Oh, it makes me want you in every way possible.”
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sincericida · 7 months
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ANDREW GARFIELD
for The Glass Magazine (October, 2021 | 📷 Michael Schwartz)
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b3ans0up · 1 year
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Spidy~❤ 🕸
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scorpiomother · 1 year
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APOCALYPSE (pt. three)
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・゚★ . remember that you are dust and to dust, you shall return
summary: there’s no way you can put a label on what you and peter are. friends with benefits aren’t even the proper term. he pisses you off but reels you back in every time...
word count: 10.1k (holy hell)
warnings: explicit content. minors dni (+18) seggsy times w/ dom! peter on x games mode, but nothing too crazy i think ;p
playlist 𓆩♡𓆪 mood board 𓆩♡𓆪 read on ao3 𓆩♡𓆪 series mlist 𓆩♡𓆪 masterlist 𓆩♡𓆪 kofi 
← chapter two 
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ACQUAINTED 
You were self-destructive. That’s what you had decided the second time you let Peter into your apartment. The third and fourth times, you decided that this was so very feminist and empowering of you. You were the modern woman! Casual sex was so easy.
It’s been two weeks since your first date with Peter and the nights eventually blended together and you lost count of the times he came over. You couldn’t help it when your social life amounted to nothing, and Peter was not one to deny sex.
You wouldn’t admit it out loud, but he was ruining everything for you. So technically, you were self-destructive and feminist all at the same time. (Also, very modern woman of you).
The ghost of him lingered. There were bags of coffee in your pantry for him to drink after fucking you. (You assumed it was so that he would have enough energy to make his way back to Queens and avoid sleeping over at all costs). His records started to mix in with your own collection. (His forgetful dumb ass never remembering to take them with him). Your own bed sheets were stained with the smell of him. (A mix of his evergreen shampoo and your own body wash that he would use). It’s like he was deliberately making you addicted to him. He simply ruined the comfort of your own home.
Not to mention, it was nearly impossible for you to focus on work anymore. Harry often found you with a blank stare and you had a hard time keeping up with the endless amount of emails and paperwork. You were either daydreaming about having sensual sex with him or if he liked you the way that you liked him (which you easily doubted).
You have never been so mentally absent in your life. It was like Peter took that sane part of you with him. That bastard.
Today was no different. The work day went by slowly and for a long while, Peter’s veined hands on your hips were the topic of interest in your mind. It was an early symptom of your impeding love sick disease. Not that you were in love with Peter or anything.
It always began like that. A superficial, sometimes aroused, thought. And then it would snowball into something more skin-deep.
You were filing paperwork, something you would normally push to the side, but with your wandering mind, you needed to do something that required less amount of thinking so that you could think about more important things. Like self-reflection and relationships. Like how the fuck did you let this happen. This being your somewhat of a relationship with Peter.
After that rainy afternoon to evening sex, you thought you would never see Peter again, and eventually, at two in the morning, you convinced yourself that you liked it that way before falling asleep. Two perfect orgasms in one night by handsome and mysterious Peter Parker? Who cared if you didn’t click? You definitely clicked in your apartment. And that’s a big win!
Peter Parker was nothing and you were going to move about your weekend like he wasn’t life-altering or anything! It was a one-night stand and people had one-night stands all of the time.
What was crazy and possibly unfortunate, was that Peter was at your front door the next morning. It was too early for you to be awake, your Sunday’s normally not starting until the afternoon. You hadn’t expected anyone at your door, let alone Peter. If you knew it was Peter, you would’ve fixed your hair a bit better.
When you opened the door, your breath immediately hitched at the sight of your unannounced guest.
Peter was donned in casual wear with the same backpack from the day before hanging on his shoulder, now dry. While you were adoring him in his gray sweatpants, you could feel his gaze on your body. Your pajamas, short and sheer, revealed to Peter all of the marks he made on you. You bit your lip before acknowledging his presence.
Your cheeks buzzed with a combination of shyness and eagerness. “Peter? Did you forget something?”
His eyes clung to your breasts for another second before granting you his full attention.
“I got you… um, something, and I didn’t have your number,” he shrugged. You looked at his hand and saw the plastic Walgreens bag in his grasp.
“I know the sex was really good-”
“Really, really good,” he corrected.
His quick interjection made a laugh bubble in your chest. “Right. But, my hand in marriage, Peter?”
“I know, I’m such a romantic,” he shrugged..
“I have such a shit memory…How’d you remember where I live?”
“Put a tracker on you. You know, nothing crazy,” Peter said, putting the bag in your possession, the crinkles making your ears tingle.
“Smart,” you said taking the plastic in your hands. When you opened up the bag there was a small purple box causing you to let out a snicker. “Wow. Hand delivered Plan B? What a gentleman…”
Peter rubbed the back of his head, clearly embarrassed.
“I just felt really bad about not offering to use a condom or anything. And I’m clean, no doubt about it. So you don’t have to worry about it,” he said.
“Oh, thank you! I mean according to my period tracker I shouldn’t be ovulating, but I’ll take this anyways,” you found yourself oversharing, accommodating for his own discomfort.
“Yeah, can’t have mini me’s running around,” he smirked.
Your grin turned into a full-fledged, teeth and all smile. “Definitely not.”
Although the awkwardness of the situation made you cringe, it didn’t stop you from noticing how Peter looked so cute and sleepy-eyed. His messy tussles of hair were begging you to just hold on. It was sickening how terribly gravitated you were by him.
Your mouth was doing that thing again. Speaking without permission. “Don’t you think we should get your money’s worth?”
Peter tilted his head and soon after grinned, quick to unscramble your riddle. “Ah you don’t mean…”
“I do mean...” You pressed your thighs together at the thought of having him in you again. He had to have spent about fifty dollars on the small pill. Living in New York wasn’t cheap and neither was being a full-time student for Peter! It was in both of your best interests to make this count.
“I have class in an hour.” His words held no meaning when his eyes wandered to your thighs. It was just words and actions meant more. His feet were planted, unyielding, not ready to leave your apartment. You took a mental note that Peter noticed everything. And you were going to use it to your advantage
It wasn’t in your nature to be so bold, but every part of your body begged to please Peter. Let me your good girl, your neurons snapped and fired and pleaded.
“We don’t have to take an hour,” you said licking your lips.
Peter shook his head with a sinful grin before he took a step into your apartment, his backpack already flung to the floor to be forgotten for the next fifteen minutes.“You and your bright ideas…”
That was the third time Peter Parker came inside of you. Out of God who knows many times! The only difference was that you were now on birth control, an easy pick-up with your covered insurance. Thank you OSCORP!
When you reflect back, all you can do is blame it all on Peter. Though, you often noticed how you were always the one to initiate the sex. But it wouldn’t have happened if it weren’t for him and his eyes that made you feel like you were drunk all the time.
It was easier to be the victim than to purge all contact from Peter. Because that was what you would have to do if you weren’t the victim.
Finally, you had finished filing the large stack of paper on your desk. At least you could go home today and say that you completed something successfully. It was a Friday and you were antsy to go home. Not because of anything particular, but you were barely sleeping whether it was up from late nights with Peter or nights alone and thinking of Peter, both equally leaving you with a lack of restful nights.
As you sat back comfortably in your chair, you let out a sigh as if you were working yourself to the bone.
“You’ve been really tired recently, huh?”
When you look up, your eyes fixated on Harry in a well-fitted, navy suit.
“Blue suits you,” you said as he sat on your desk.
“Don’t tell me, you and Parker are having late nights,” he grinned, leaning forward on his knees. Perhaps to assert dominance. Show off the way that he knows what you have been up to.
“No, I just haven’t been sleeping well,” you scoffed.
“Right. From all of your late nights with him,” he wiggled his eyebrows.
“Respectfully, fuck off, Mr. Osborn.”
“Whatever you say, Y/N.” Harry hopped off the desk and proceeded to crack his knuckles. You watched as he walked around the foyer.
“Did you bring lunch today?” He said.
“No, I didn’t have time to pack anything.”
“Great. Join me? My treat,” Harry flashed a smug smirk.
It was a douchebag’s peace offering. One that you weren’t going to pass up.
∗ ࣪ ˖༺ 𓆩☆𓆪 ༻˖ ࣪ ∗
The cherry pie in front of Harry taunted you as you nibbled on the leafy greens and ruby red tomatoes on your plate.
“Pie for lunch. You’re living the life.”
“I told you to order whatever you like,” Harry laughed, pointing his sugar-coated fork at you to emphasize his words.
Harry had decided on a small bistro a couple of blocks away from OSCORP. You had expected to walk to lunch, but Prince Harry had other plans that involved a black Mercedes Benz and a personal driver. Spoiled, you thought to yourself in the luxurious car.
“And I like this,” you gestured to your vibrant salad.
Harry scoffed, preceding to shake his head at your remark. “Yeah right.”
“Bite me,” you said after taking a mouthful of the arugula in your mouth, giving Harry a dorky smile with greens in between your teeth. “Careful for what you wish for.”
In a way, you were thankful that Harry continued with the snide comments and flirty remarks even though you were seeing his best friend. It was the only normalcy you had at the moment and you knew you could count on his smart mouth. Harry would burst at the seams if he knew how you looked forward to his banter.
Harry placed the fork down and rested his chin on his palm. “So what are you guys?”
You let out an aggravated sigh. “Harry, I’m not going to talk to you about this.”
“Fuck professionalism, I set you up on that date. I deserve to know what’s the deal with you two.”
“I don’t owe you anything, Harry,” you said plainly.
What was there to say to Harry? You clearly weren’t dating Peter Parker, but you wouldn’t go out of your way to say that you were friends with benefits. It was hard to find the exact terminology for what you two were to each other. You could say “fuck buddies” but that didn’t feel right either. It felt like you were sex acquaintances. Acquainted with each other through sex, that’s all. Because saying “friends with benefits” would entail that you were friends or that you know remotely anything about each other.
You didn’t know how to comprehend the situation-ship.
What was worse was that you were suppressing any feelings for him because it was easy to enjoy someone's company when they were making you cum. He touched you like he loved and worshipped you, but despite everything, he continued to be distant and mentally absent from you aside from the banter you shared. It was confusing.
It all felt like shallow banter and hollow flirting.
When it came down to it, you both didn’t know much about one another. When you don’t share a real conversation with one another, but spend a consequential amount of time together, that leaves room for observation. He didn’t have to say a thing for you to know him. You could tell when he was anxious or had a lot on his mind. It was simple observation and emotional cognition, but it felt like he didn’t have that same understanding for you. He didn’t watch and study you the way that you did.
It felt silly to search for a fleeting moment of bliss with him. You were chasing that recklessly. Somehow it was worse to be in love with Peter than be with Harry you realize. Peter was secretive and you were greedy. It didn’t mix well.
You were embarrassed to admit that you wanted more of him.
“Why don’t you ask Peter?”
“He won’t tell me a thing,” he shrugged.
Peter didn’t talk about you. It was both relieving and hurtful. But maybe it was for the best that Harry had nothing to say about it so he couldn’t tell you that this was a bad idea or that Peter was just using you. Both equally terrible news.
Harry’s eyes searched for the reason that caused you visible distress. All you could do was let out a breath that brought no real relief and give Harry a response.“I don’t know what we are, okay?”
Harry’s eyes softened. “What do you want to be?”
A snort escaped from you. It was a hilarious question, something you never let yourself truly think about. “Again, I don’t know.”
The sexual compatibility was transpicuous and it was so unbelievably clear how easy it was to fall into one another. Yet, there was always something holding Peter back. The way that he would part his lips and momentarily light up, just to throw away a semblance of spark in himself. It seemed as though he was constantly at war with himself.
You wanted to tell him to snap out of it and quit holding back.
You started to fork around the vegetables. Pushed the lettuce to the outer rim and rolled the tomatoes in circles. Poked and prodded at the cucumber. You lost your appetite.
“I’m just curious, Y/N. Need to know if I have to beat his ass or not,” Harry said with his eyes stuck on your plate. You couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t bare to see his pity.
You gave him a hollow laugh. “I’d like to see you try.”
∗ ࣪ ˖༺ 𓆩☆𓆪 ༻˖ ࣪ ∗
The sunlight was what woke you up at first.
The luster of amber had seeped into your bedroom and stirred you awake. It was Saturday morning, and you didn’t catch up on any sleep. In Harry’s words, you had another late night with Peter. You threw your bedsheets over your head. You partially dozed off before an arm slung around your body, stirring your consciousness to be more present.
The sudden warmth and presence of another confused you. You propped yourself up with your elbow and looked at the mess of brown hair on the adjacent pillow.
“Peter?” You said bewildered at the sight.
Peter was sleeping on his stomach, the white comforter draped along his lower back like a gossamer robe on a Grecian. His face was away from you and all you could see was his naked back and mop of hair. It wasn’t his glorious, toned back that had your heart racing, but more so that he was there at all.
“Hmmm?” Peter’s hand softly rubbed on your hip to acknowledge you. Your instincts were to grab his hand and hold it tightly, kiss his knuckles even. His touch burned into you.
It was hard to recall how last night ended. You don’t remember specifically falling asleep with Peter. You just remember falling asleep immediately. Whether Peter stayed or not wasn’t a question you were thinking about anymore, you just knew that he was going to leave. That was the routine.
You felt your voice go meek, but you forced the words out. “You stayed over?”
“I guess I did…” He mumbled, his face still smothered in pillows and sheets. His morning voice was raspy and made your stomach churn. “I’m sorry. Is that okay?”
“Yeah, I’m just surprised.” You were talking to a head of hair, but it somehow made it easier to talk to him. His eyes weren’t coercing you or turning you into a babbling idiot.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Peter and all of his apologies. It made you want to hold him in your arms and tell him that he has nothing to be sorry about. Instead, you soaked up the view of him in the morning. Here. With you.
“It’s okay, Peter.”
“Can I stay a bit longer?”
“You’re an idiot,” you said, falling back into bed.
You snaked your arm around his back, his skin hot to the touch, and spooned him, something you had never dared to do.
His skin smelled warm. Aromatic.
Lavender and tonka bean perfumed your sheets, turning Peter into a casualty.
He smelled like your lotion. 
You understood what he meant when he said he wanted to eat you. You wanted to bite into his shoulder and inhale him until there was no more room in your lungs.
You hoped your embrace was enough to convey that you wanted him to stay more than anything. For once you didn’t care what he thought and you didn’t care if you were overstepping boundaries. You only wanted to let the morning sun kiss your back as your eyelashes fluttered against Peter’s shoulder blades.
∗ ࣪ ˖༺ 𓆩☆𓆪 ༻˖ ࣪ ∗
An hour later, you properly woke up, but this time Peter wasn’t with you and the sun was no longer seeping through the blinds. A sense of relief flooded you. The idea that you didn’t have to confront him about his stay and try to make sense of everything brought you comfort, even if it would’ve been nice to wake up to him and his sleepy eyes.
The Peter-shaped dent in the mattress was proof that he had slept over. With your foolish heart and tired eyes, you were unsure if what you saw had been an apparition, a dream at best. Your eyes searched for further evidence. 
When you looked at the nightstand on his side, you saw a Polaroid and a single picture. Stretching out your arm, you took the photo between your fingers and examined it. Oddly enough, it was a picture of you.
The morning light illuminated the room with a halo-like essence around you, the yellow sheen bouncing off from your shoulder blades. There was the slightest visual of your lips past all of the hair, your bottom lip protruding- a pretty pout for Peter. It was almost angelic.
For a long time, you lay in bed with your hand in the air, the picture staring back at you. You have never had such a pretty photograph of yourself before and you wanted to memorize each detail.
Did this mean anything?
Normally, you held up the dam of your feelings with ease, but for some reason, your hold was slipping. The water was making its way past the cracks, the barrier useless against all of the thoughts flooding your mind. It was overwhelming. You were losing your control over a picture. Peter sleeping over didn’t even make you this dizzy.
In your mind, the sleepover was merely an accident, but implementing the two-thirds composition rule and pressing the shutter button wasn’t an accident. How could that be an accident?
You held it in your hand as you left your bedroom, unable to part with such an offering. Walking to the kitchen with the photo in one hand, you began to hear some noises and realized that Peter had never left. This sudden realization made you grasp tighter onto the photo as if Peter was going to snatch it out of your hand.
Peter finally came into view— a tummy-turning view at that. Shirtless and focused, he moved fluidly around your kitchen as if it was his kitchen. He was rummaging through cabinets, pouring liquid, and playing with mugs, all the while his back flexing with each movement. The marks you left from last night were still red on his skin. 
“Oh, I thought you left,” you said.
“You always think I’m leaving or something,” he chuckled without looking back at you.
Because you always leave, your mind hissed back. You swatted the intrusive and petty thoughts away, pushing them behind all of your unpacked feelings about Peter. 
You sat at the dining table and tried your best to remain calm as if this was another ordinary morning with Peter. Another ordinary morning with Peter who took pretty photos of you while you slept.
Didn’t he know? Candids were for people you cared about. 
You took the photo and put it behind your thigh. The slick film was cool to the touch. A reminder that you were something so beautiful that Peter stopped to take a picture. It was a stretch, but furthermore, you didn't know how to talk about it yet. It was better to hide it beneath you than talk to Peter about his actions.
“Am I overstaying my welcome?” he asked, continuing his task at hand.
“Not at all.” 
You were lying. If he knew you any better, he would’ve known the way that you wiggled your nose. A small bluff that even Harry knows.
Of course, you were lying! He changed the routine. He’s getting your hopes up. 
“Good, 'cause I was about to pour your tea down the drain if that was the case.”
Your heart fluttered. Peter at the very least cared about you! Who makes tea for someone you don’t care about? Psychos?
“You made me tea?”
He turned around, his front side now a view to you, with the two mugs in his hands and a grin on his face. “Figured you didn’t want any coffee,” he said before setting your mug on the table.
“You figured right,” you murmured, taking a deep inhale of the cup. 
Rather than sit at the table with you, Peter leaned on the counter and took a sip of his drink.
Peter Parker in the morning was strangely generous, or at least more generous than normal. This pit of feelings was getting deeper and deeper within the hour. Your imminent descent was going to be fatal, you thought as you blew on the mug.
Peter’s brown tufts of hair were out of place and he wore a lazy, yet satisfied grin. He was the poster child for the sexy morning look. You wanted to avert your eyes and save yourself from all the drool, but who knew when was the next time you would see Peter like this?
This interaction was all too casual for you. All too domestic.
Shuffling around your kitchen as if it was his. Making you tea with his own free will as if he knew you like the back of his hand.  Photographing small moments that he wanted as a keepsake as if you were his and someone he would want to treasure.
And it would’ve been so easy for you to give everything up to him.
For fuck’s sake, he made you tea, and now, you’re willing to do anything for him?
No, you weren’t that weak and you weren’t that hypnotized. Peter was a man, who only comes to you for one thing and one thing only.
Your eyes fell from the rim of his glasses to his toned abs and the faint bulge in his shorts, convincing yourself that you wanted him for one thing and one thing only. You definitely did not want to stare into his eyes and exchange intimate secrets with Peter. Only partake in physical activities with him.
A certain quietness sat still between you two. The only sound in the kitchen was alternating sounds of Peter taking sips and you blowing your tea. Not even the normal New York white noise was apparent to you. You were completely absorbed with this small pod of yours that just so happened to have Peter Parker.
Were you supposed to be acting like everything was okay? When in fact you weren’t okay?
The herbal steam mixed in with your breath, the air around you warm. Normally that warmth would be relaxing, but you felt sticky.  You were oddly hyper-aware of the polaroid beneath your thighs, the film adhering to your skin. You peeled it off and held it in your lap, still hidden from Peter. The border felt grainy between your fingers. What did this mean? You felt dull compared to the girl who was golden and sun-soaked in the picture.
You had this certain itch that urged you to let the questions spill right out, but that would be so fully you. Your impulsive mouth was what got you here. 
You watched Peter take a sip from his mug, his eyes on the wood floor. If you don’t say anything, Peter will stay quiet and stare at the ground until he realizes it’s his time to leave.
Maybe your mouth was a good thing.
“Is this me?” You asked, finally holding the picture up.
When his eyes reached the photo in your hands, he took another sip. Peter was unfazed. There was no change in his posture, your findings deeming no surprise to him. He was still enjoying his coffee like someone does when they have no secrets to hide.
For some reason, that didn’t sit well with you. A part of you yearned for a reaction out of him, something that told you more about him. A smile that said, you found it. Or rosy cheeks that wished he hid it properly.
“Oh, right. I hope you don’t mind,” he said cooly. “It’s for a class of mine.”
For a class. Not recreational enjoyment or holding any sentiment.
You couldn’t help but frown at him. “Kind of creepy, Peter.” 
He tilted his head in confusion. “Shit, really?”
You wanted to turn this around and make him feel silly. What are you doing taking pictures of unconscious girls? Make him feel like the asshole. ‘Cause he was an asshole. An asshole for making you feel crazy.
Instead, you relinquished the photo to the table. “I’m just joking with you. It’s a nice photo.”
“Thank you.”
You swirled the mug in your hands, the liquid nearly spilling. Disappointment sat in your chest and you yearned for reassurance. You wished he was different.
One would assume that after spending a couple of weeks together, your connection with Peter would have grown, even minutely. But it feels like the first day of your meeting with him. Physically near, yet so far away.
"You know, it felt like you didn’t like me at the coffee shop.” You find yourself admitting.
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Hmm, weird.”
“Right,” you squinted your eyes at him, searching for his thoughts. “Weird.”
You expected him to say kind, heartfelt words. Words that fit around your syllabus. Of course, I liked you on our first date. Or I like you now, don’t I? But he was never one to omit that type of stuff. He couldn't even lie about it. Instead, he says, weird.
The sleepover. The photo. It was all changing your perception and expectations of this relationship. It was criminal.
“I like you on top of me.”
God, did this guy know how to read a room. You didn’t know what to feel with his sudden proclamation. You reluctantly took a sip of your tea, your body unsure what to do with itself. The tea hit the back of your throat, cold and bitter. The warmth had disappeared leaving you disappointed. The warmth in the tea and in Peter.
“I’m sure you like any girl on top of you,” you said unamused while you tried to get over the bitterness in your mouth.
He shrugged, clearly unaware of your feelings. “I will take anything I get.”
Asshole.
You hated moments like this. Uninterested Peter. Peter, who gives you nothing to work with.  You couldn’t even make excuses for him. 
“Ya’ know... I especially like you under me.”
When you looked up, Peter was taking a long sip from his mug. Past the steam, his eyes were glued on you. He was like a lion watching his prey. Ready to devour you.
And these moments were worse. Peter Parker, who resorts to sex. And you, who lets him use you.
Whether he liked you or not on the first date (or even, right now) didn’t matter. It was the answer that he withheld from you. It was the way he never let you in, not even for a moment. You deserved the truth, didn’t you?
You felt irritated. Irritated that he couldn’t be honest and couldn’t go further than having sex with you, as if sex isn’t far enough. Normally, you would push away his indifference or welcome the new sexual tension. But, today wasn’t like all the other days where you accept the role as Peter’s lap dog.
“Why would I like that?” You scoffed at your mug. Brave enough to challenge him and yet you couldn’t bring your eyes to him. It was a pathetic attempt at gaining control, but being confrontational wasn’t your thing. Being Peter’s good girl was your thing. 
“Like what?” He said.
You dragged your tongue across your teeth, the lack of amusement clear on your face. “Being under you,” you said, rolling your eyes.
Your defiance caused a wicked laugh to come out of him.
“You’re serious right now?" His voice was deep and intense making your stomach quick to stir.
You could hear Peter walk closer, making the space between you lessen until his feet were in your eyesight.
"Why wouldn't I be?" You said softly. You meant to be more confident and use your anger as fuel, but your irritation was replaced with anticipation. 
"You're funny." His tone continued to be stern and heavy on your chest. Heavy in your abdomen. 
His hand skimmed your cheek, a barely-there touch before his lips pressed against your forehead like a blessing. Like smudging ash in the shape of a cross on your forehead.
You felt like dust, crumbling into nothing.
“Can I show you?” He whispered.
You opened your mouth to say no, but Peter didn’t give you the chance to answer. He wasn’t asking you, he was warning you. He hoisted you up onto him in one swift motion from the chair to his chest. A whimper had escaped you and so did your aggravation. It was a quick exchange, a flustered feeling now warming your cheeks with this sensation of not knowing what to do with yourself and all of your thoughts.
With a tight grip, he suspended you in the air at the waist. The act said it is so easy to make you mine. You were in his whole possession.
Peter turned you into an atomic bomb compressed into a woman who has no choice but to stay calm as if you were anything but an overwhelmed and confused woman. All you could do was let him pepper kisses along your jaw, hoping that it would burn the turmoil away.
You could never think straight when it came to Peter. You were putty in his hands, and all you could do was dig your nails into his back. You so desperately wanted to be strong, but the way that he held you up by your waist so easily made you aroused.
“Peter...” You moaned. 
“Want me to stop?” His lips moved gently against your soft flesh, the kiss of air prickling at the spots Peter sucked on. The way that he dragged his tongue along your neck made your hips buck. 
“I’ll stop if you ask me to.” He assured you again. It was meaningless words that you didn’t know if you could trust. His roaming hands said he had no intention of stopping. He just wanted to parade his power in front of you. Like a new, shiny toy on Christmas Day. Look at this. Look at the way I make you needy. He was just waiting patiently for your surrender.
Peter continued to make you lightheaded with his hands and his lips and his tongue. After weeks of late-night hookups, he knew what made you weak. He was taking advantage of your sensitivity knowing that you would never dare to ask him to stop. 
He kneaded your ass, his middle finger dragging near your slit in the process. It was clear how wet you were for him when he traced the hem of your moist panties. 
He shifted the thin layer of fabric to the side, your pussy now exposed and vulnerable to him.  When his ring finger brushed against your needy hole, he could feel your chest expand with all the air in the room. 
“Didn’t think so,” he mumbled against your neck. “If you wanted me to stop, you wouldn’t be this wet.”
His lips trailed along your shoulder, leaving sloppy kisses, coaxing out sighs from you. It was like each time he pressed a kiss to you, he was putting oxygen into you and the only thing you could do was exhale it out with a moan before you became overfilled with him.
He was right, you didn’t want him to stop. You just wanted to know if he liked you. That’s all. So you took it out on him with bitter remarks, attempting to shoot bullets in his chest, and instead, he turned the gun around on you. 
Peter’s middle finger found it’s way to your entrance, your voice getting caught in your throat. It easily slipped in, your treacherous pussy sucking it in. To your dismay, he wasn’t gentle at all, vigorously inserting it in and out of you. As your nails dug into his back and his finger pumped into you, your whimpers echoed.
“So sensitive,” he chuckled. Peter’s lips feathered against your ear, a chill tingling at your spine. 
“It’s not funny,” you pouted with your lips pressed against his neck.
He pulled his finger out of you, abandoning your pussy. The emptiness made you whimper. “I mean, it’s pretty funny to me.” 
Peter kept one hand around your ass, holding your weight up while he took his middle finger into his mouth and tasted you. He looked at you with glazed eyes causing a release of butterflies in your stomach. “Be a good girl for me, will you?”
“Maybe, I’ll let you taste yourself on my cock,” he said before spanking your ass. You yelped at the impact, your arms helplessly clenching his chest as if he wasn’t the one who spanked you. God, he was going to make you eat your words.
“You’re not being very nice,” you mewled, the spot where he slapped beginning to burn.
“Good girls get good things,” he whispered before setting you down on the countertop.
The wood was a cold shock to you, your pussy now flush to the table. You were suddenly aware of how naked and raw you were right now, the air around you so / sharp.
He took a step back and examined you like you were his morning meal. His eyes had turned from a hazelnut brown to obsidian black. There was a glint in his eyes that scared you. Gave you fear that pulsed in your empty slit.
He pulled you into him by your hips and your dripping cunt immediately found his hard length. Though you were sitting on the table now, Peter towered over you. He had all the power. He always has. So, you let him do everything. You were too weak to do anything but ball his waistband into your fist. He wanted to put you in your place, and you let him. You were his to kiss and ruin. 
He grabbed your hair and ushered you to his lips. His tongue lapped into your mouth and his hands wandered. You could taste the bitter coffee and it transported you back to the first day you met him.
He has always been disinterested and detached Peter. You never knew what to make out of him back then and you still don’t. 
Kissing him for the first time was unexpected. Unforeseen. But it still felt that way when you were with him, even with him inching closer to you. Your mind constantly thinking, oh, he’s kissing me again as if it was a goddam miracle for him to still want you.
God, were you lost in his touch. Dissolving into his mouth, each kiss to your skin an attempt to get to the center of you like a damn tootsie pop. He kissed you once on the nape of your neck. Twice on your jaw. And the third time, he took you by your lips. 
It was like he was trying to find the answer to the age-old question: how many licks to the center of a tootsie pop? Except it was how many kisses till you fall apart?
For you it wasn’t about how many kisses, but which kiss? Because you fell apart a long time ago. Probably the day he kissed you in the rain. The day he washed your back and pressed a delicate kiss right behind your ear, a place meant for secrets, not kisses. But maybe he was telling you something in another language. Sharing a vulnerability with you that you didn’t know.
Your head was dizzy with the thought. The feeling that Peter had broken you apart was enough to make you shudder. He was peeling back your skin till you were nothing but a skeleton and taking it upon himself to carve his name into the bone. He was always taking. Taking your mind. Your attention. Your orgasms… It wasn’t fair.
You mustered up all the strength in you to gain control.
“Peter, you can’t...” You mewled in a weak attempt.
He nipped at your shoulder, a mean bite to your flesh. 
A desperate ahhh came from your throat when his canines pressed into you, sending a thick jolt up your chest. The sudden pain created an embarrassing stimulation to your slit. You buckled you hips, your pussy begging for Peter’s lips to reattach to it.
“When did you become such a brat?” His groan vibrated against your collarbone, his voice traveling to your core. 
Humiliation spread across your face. But for all the wrong reasons. He made you feel so small. Terribly submissive. And you liked it. You attempted to squeeze your thighs together, but Peter felt your slight shift and immediately brought it to a halt, clutching at your leg.
He lowered his head in a way that his lips lightly brush against your ear. “I’ll take good care of you if you’ll let me.
The heat from his mouth made your nipples harden all the while, the butterflies in your stomach were traveling to your wet cunt. 
Once again, Peter slid your panties to the side and started tending to your clit. His fingers were electricity, your body just a host for all the pleasure Peter granted you. The tempo was slow and reeling like the fire in his eyes. He had an appetite for you. You could tell by the darkened look in his eyes and the way he licked his lips. 
“Take off your shirt,” he demanded. His fingers circled around your pussy, an agonizing repetition from rubbing over your empty hole to your swelling bud. Your index finger twitched, ready to be compliant, but the little demon in the back of your head quickly terminated the movement.
“Or what,” you said shaky, occasionally shuddering when his fingers reached your clit. You were high off of disobedience, the act of challenging him bringing you butterflies. You were desperate to see what he’ll do to you.
“Or else,” he murmured.
“That’s not a real answer,” you said further provoking him.
You could see his jaw clench, the light flicker in his eyes. Your pussy was throbbing at the sight. He blinked his eyes once, before working your shorts and panties off of you. He made up his mind. He figured out your punishment within seconds.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing,” he deadpanned. Peter threw the clothing to the floor, leaving you in your flimsy tank. Peter stared at your cunt for a long time, licking his lips. Your instincts told you to cover your pussy, but decided against it and left your legs open for him. It was too late to be shy. And what was there to be shy about when he looked at you like something worth looking at? Wasn’t that what you wanted?
When he finally brought his eyes to your face, he bent down and kneeled at your feet. It happened so fast, yet so slow. Like your brain couldn’t register what was happening.
Your cheeks turned crimson seeing that he was close enough to smell your cunt. Preemptively, you dug your fingernails into the table and bit your lip. “Peter… What are you doing?”
He answered, but not the way that you expected him to. You gasped as he took your bud into his mouth, experimentally scraping the bundle of nerves with his teeth. “Peter!” 
“What does it look like I’m doing?” He said, eyes overcome with lust. He stared you down while his lips pressed a wet kiss to your heat. He never failed to make you feel so small, even though he was the one kneeling down before you.
He hummed with satisfaction as he dipped his tongue into you, soaking your folds with his saliva.
You hoisted yourself up by your palm, watching him work with awe. He introduced two fingers into you, stretching you wider, as he used every part of his mouth to please you. You couldn’t identify Peter’s saliva and your juices separately. They mixed like red and blue turning it into an unrecognizable, purple mess that you created together.
Before you know it, the pleasure turned into something that moved you. You were rocking into him, trying to catch the gratification. His position was perfect and any second longer, you were going to see stars. His arms anchored around your hips, a thumb lazily dragging across your clit while your legs hung on his shoulders. You kept rocking, bucking your hips up and down, using his face and fingers like a toy. How could he have all the power when you were violating him like this?
“Am I doing a good job?” His raggedy voice vibrated against your skin. 
What do you think, you laughed to yourself. You were riding his face, hips shifting and pussy quivering. You were immobilized in his hands, enjoying every lick he gave you. You wished you could take a picture of the sight. Peter kneeling for you with his mouth enveloping your cunt, a thick tent in between his legs. 
“Admit it. You like how I touch you,” he pressed a kiss to your cunt, a temporary break from the unrelenting friction. He gave you begging words with a candied peck, but you knew it wasn’t free. It’s intentions were to make you submit, create a more vulnerable you so he can take you in his powerful hold and torment you. Your words were a binding contract, your statement forever on the record. You couldn’t bare to incriminate yourself.
But then his fingers were knuckles deep in you, rapidly moving in a blinding pace. In the meantime, his kisses turned you into a bite of the fist. He started to move his face left and right, his tongue putting more and more pressure on you.
You wanted to cry. Cry out in pleasure and let the tears fall from the overwhelming pressure of everything. Your true feelings for Peter were thumping at your chest and you wanted to ignore them. You wanted to tell him that he made you feel so good. That animalistic inclination to please Peter was eating at you from the inside.
“You like the way I kiss you.” He started to slow his rhythm down, the vigorous pumps of his fingers dying down and his tongue gently sweeping your clit. “The way I eat you out.”
You hummed with desire, a lazy and vague response to the cruel Peter. You were used to his cruelty, but this was a different type of cruel. Deliberate and mocking.
“I need to hear you say it,” he said, his unmoving fingers now soaking in you. Your hips grinded against them, needy to be pumped full.
“I can’t,” you managed to get out past the broken breaths.
“Must be doing a bad job, then, huh?” 
“Should stop since I’m so shit,” he said, pulling his fingers out and using them to trail along your opening. You could feel your pussy clenching, searching for something to pulsate around.
You whined desperately for him, your heart plummeting down your ribcage like a falling from a flight of stairs, each ribcage a rigged step.
He released you from his hold, your body suddenly so empty without his touch. 
“I’m sorry, did you want me to keep going?” He feigned innocence.
He was an annoying and persistent salesman at the door, ringing the bell and knocking violently, and you hide in your room with your hands over your ear. No one’s home! Go away! I don’t want to buy your terribly manufactured product!
Go away, Peter. I don’t know how to talk to you.
Admitting you wanted him was dangerous for your headspace even if it was just a sex thing. It was like once you started talking, you weren’t going to stop. A small admission of the sexual pleasure he gave you would snowball into how much you wanted him to like you. Or worse, the act of saying it out loud turned it into something that you couldn't take back. Your feelings coming to fruition. But at the moment, denying yourself of an orgasm felt worse.
“Peter, don’t,” you uttered, your voice broken up and small. This awarded you with the insertion of a finger, the slow thrust pushing a satisfied moan out of you.
“Peter, don’t what,” he rasped, his voice like sandpaper against your skin making you curl into him. You tried to catch your breath, find your voice, come to your senses. But it was hard when Peter’s eyes bore into you, patiently waiting for your answer. He put pressure on you with this already there burden in your gut.
“Don’t stop,” you blushed. “Want you to make me cum…”
“Where?” He looked at you with a newfound softness, a face that said please tell me more.
“Need to cum on your face,” you sighed with eyes hazy as you could feel Peter draw closer to you. His presence was like static, his lips emitting this energy that you can feel inches away.
His lips finally reached you again. That energy surged through you like you were an outlet and him, the plug, your collision creating glints of light. 
Peter flicked his tongue up and down eagerly, taking your confession to heart. Immediately, the familiar sensation of arousal bubbled up from your slit to your chest. The pleasure was pumping into you, building up to something that you couldn’t handle, turning you squeamish. You jolted and tried to adjust your hips, your body unconsciously fighting Peter.
He was so cruel. Holding you down like you were the canvas during an earthquake and he, the determined painter, continues to stroke till his work is complete. 
“Isn’t this what you wanted?” he said between licks. 
You’re purple all over, the matrimonial union of red and blue occurring over and over. Your shared secretions intertwine with each other. The sweat and saliva. The glossiness of your cunt. All of it. If thoughts could transcend through bodily fluids, then Peter would already know all of your secrets. All of the things you want to tell him. All of the things you can’t say.
Peter’s tongue had found a hurried tempo that makes your hips buckle. It was getting harder and harder to hold yourself up. You put so much pressure onto your hands, trying to grip the rigid wood, the shock of each lick to your bottom half aiming no mercy to your arms.
You swear there’s a fire in your bloodstream and all you do is scream Peter’s name, him being the one who committed the arson. The flames traveled from up your legs to your face, an outpour of pleasure coursing through your body.
“I’m coming!” You cried, your grasp full of his thick hair.
“Come for me, baby,” he cooed, letting you convulse on his face. 
The arsonist in him has a smug smile watching you tremble and your pussy twitch, your whole body up in flames. You arched your back, gratification advancing through the channels in your spine.
Your chest was heavy as you attempted to balance your numb legs on his shoulders. Catching your breath was nearly impossible with your throbbing heart and the tremors rolling through your cunt. Peter’s hands held onto your hips, keeping you steady and from falling.
When you finally reeled back to your senses, you brushed Peter’s hair back to get a good look at his face. “Peter…” You purred.
“How do you want it?”
“What?”
“You don’t think we’re done, do you?”
The blood from your swollen pussy rushed up to your face, the unbearable heat blooming in your cheeks. “Peter, I really don’t thi-”
“Fine, I’ll choose for you,” he declared calmly.
Peter’s hands were faster than your declines. He pulled you off the table and turned your around so that your ass was flush with his cock. His hand nudged your weak body into the table and started to spread your legs.
Your whole body was tingling with anticipation. He has never fucked you with such dominance and it made you feel exhilarated. Your logic was fighting against him, unsure if you could take any more.
“Peter,” you croaked out. “M’ so weak.”
“I told you, I’ll take care of you, didn’t I?” The cloy tone he bared to you made your stomach turn as his hands snaked to your hips, his grip gnawing into your flesh.
He uses his cock to tap on your entrance like knocks at a door.
You dug your nails into the table again, bracing yourself for his length. You expect him to shove it in, hard and unforgiving, but instead, he nudged his leaking tip into you, swirling the head in your wetness.
And then he fucks you agonizingly slow.
He winded his cock all the way out, just to inch it back in, coating every part of your walls with his precum. Peter’s calculated thrusts rendered him balls deep into you, nearly hitting your cervix with his length.
You were enamored by the sedated cadence and the sensations of Peter. You could hear his labored breaths and feel the moisture on his palms. The occasional grunts in your ears. Somehow, it wasn’t enough.
“More,” you muttered under your breath.
A part of you hoped he didn’t hear it, and the sick and twisted part of you does. 
There was a soft chuckle coming from Peter. When his voice comes out, it sounds candy coated to you.
“You think you can take it?”
“No,” you told him. He didn’t understand you most of the time, but he understood you now. You wanted to feel the pleasure and the hurt that came with his cock. You wanted as much of Peter as you could get. You wanted it all.
The snap of his hips was like a whip made out of lightning, a thunderstorm collecting in your apartment. The electricity of his touch and the claps of his thrusts had echoed. The overstimulation had created you into a babbling mouth of nonsense.
“Gonna fuck the brat out of you,” he groaned, the words coming across like a warning.
You were someone else at that moment, pleading and begging with tears in your eyes. Please, please, please was drooling from your mouth, a recitation as if it was the only word you knew and couldn’t bare to lose it. You knew you were someone else because your hand reached out for his. You were already intertwined in his body, but it wasn’t enough. You needed to feel his grip, interlock his fingers with yours.
Before the hand of uncertainty reaches you, you place your palm over his knuckles. His thrusts were violent and your legs were already ready to give out from you. It’s for stability, not yearning, you convince yourself.
To your surprise, he pulled his hand from under yours and seized it in one fast motion, his large hands clenching onto you like you wanted.
Your heart stirred. Not from the previous orgasm and not from being railed, but from holding hands with him, the most intimate act you have experienced with him. “Peter…” You whispered.
“Say it again,” he groaned into your ear.
You repeat his name with each thrust. It was an exorcism of him, a ritual to fuck the thoughts of him right out. So you give in, desperately needing it to work. To appease the choir and rid yourself of the spirit. His name was guiding you to your catharsis.
You were entirely enraptured by his dick, your walls starting to clench again.
“Feel you getting tighter,” he pressed wet kisses against the curve of your shoulder. “Gonna come, aren’t you?”
“Maybe...” Your voice came out strained and tiny, like a butterfly with a broken wing unsteady in flight.
“Maybe?” He growled and proceeded to massage your cunt with an intensity that made you almost fall over. “Such a brat. You want me to stop?”
“No!” You cried out immediately.
“Prove it.” His thrust came to a halt and his mean voice commanded you.
You shoved his cock into you, straight to the hilt, and started to push against his cock to your wits ends. It felt like all of the oxygen in your brain had left so that it can make a new home in your core. You moved against him like each pump would grant you a small supply of oxygen.
“Fuck. Look at you making a mess on my cock,” he hissed. 
It’s like he put you in a trance. Your body was fatigued and you could barely stand without your legs shaking. Yet you did as you were told and fucked his cock.
His hands were heaven against you. His thumb trailed along your knuckles while you pushed back against him. “You’re doing so good, baby.” 
That was the second time he called you baby. The first time, you were too absorbed in your orgasm to register it. And now, you were more coherent than you were and holding his hand. Hearing baby felt taunting and mean, but you held it close to your chest anyways. 
“Just like that, baby,” he praised you with that same endearment. “You’re gonna make me cum like that.”
You could feel his cock pulsate and throb at your walls. It felt like you were set ablaze, the fire sizzling at your skin. The name-calling. The hand holding. The thick, pulsating member. The accumulation of it all had collected into your core, your orgasm blossoming at the sensation overload.
“Can you get any tighter?” He groaned. 
“Peter…” You tried to warn him, but it was lodged in your throat. 
His hand was clutching onto yours as if you threatened to take it away from him. His grip was strong, too strong. He was hurting you, but you didn’t care when it felt so good. You dug your nails into your palm as Peter coaxed your orgasm out.
You came to the summit again with sweat beading at your pores and shaky legs. Fragmented curses were drawn out from you as you reached the peak of your high.
“Fuck, I’m cumming!” You gasped, frantically moving on Peter’s cock for the sole purpose of your satisfaction. 
“Oh, baby…” he moaned. “Fucking milk me.”
You turned your head back to watch Peter, to look at him use you. He was covered in a sheen of sweat, his eyes mesmerized by your greedy pussy eating him whole. Your mouth was agape as he thrust into you, soft moans vibrating in your throat. God, he was so pretty.
When he caught you aimlessly staring, his eyebrows knit together in agony. “Don’t give me those eyes, baby.” 
“Gonna make me cum just from your pretty eyes,” he rasped.
Peter reached out to your neck, his hands covering it completely, pulling you closer to him so that your back was against his chest.
You arched your back, giving Peter a better angle to ram his cock into you. He used your clenching pussy to find his release and slammed against your walls repeatedly. You desperately bit your lip to smother the sobs that were on the precipice of forming. 
“Fuck! Gonna cum in you!” He was panting, his breath hot against your skin.
Encouraging words were spilling from your mouth like God, yes, and fucking cum in me and Peter, just like that.
Peter felt like hot wax on your body, the molten liquid trickling all over you until you were a mold of a version of yourself that you didn’t like. The candle wax sculpture of you encapsulates thoughts of only Peter. He was all-consuming, marking every part of your body as his. 
He rocked into you slowly as he pumped his spill into you. You could feel Peter’s cum fill you up, the liquid practically leaking from your hole.
When the thrusts became nothing but cock warming, a thank you escaped from your lips before you could retract it. Though it felt impossible, your cheeks reddened further from your intrusive gratitude. Thank you for making me cum, Peter. How dorky of you.
“You’re so weird,” Peter laughed with his face resting on your shoulder.
“I guess you really did fuck the brat out of me,” you huffed out.
He pressed a delicate kiss on the arch of your lower back before undoing himself from you.
After cleaning you up, Peter guided you to the couch, letting you use his chest as a pillow. 
It was a quiet afternoon that seemed to stand still like this. You didn’t expect Peter to still be here. A part of you was waiting for him to get up and leave.
While Peter had buried his face into your hair and continuously traced the outline of your body, you were drawing invincible constellations on his sinewy chest and listening to his heart attempt to regulate itself. You tried to focus on the rhythm to avoid the thoughts that were at the forefront of your mind.
You and Peter didn’t need a label, not when the sex was that amazing. Peter wasn’t complaining and you weren’t going to start. Who needed mental stability anyways? 
You could feel a certain type of drowsiness slowly sinking into your body with your eyelids becoming heavy. You let out a sluggish yawn.
“Tired?”
“Yeah,” you whispered.
“Can I be honest with you before you go to sleep?”
You shook your head in approval, too worn out to use your words.
“Sometimes, I feel like I’m addicted to you,” Peter said quitely.
There was an immediate reanimation of your heart, the words shocking it awake like Frankenstein’s monster.
You craned your neck back to look at him, trying to see if he was playing a prank on you. If he was sleep talking.
He looked almost disappointed with his head back and his lips slack in disinterest. You watched as he kept his eyes closed and adam's apple dramatically bob as if he took a big gulp. Somehow, despite the visible discomfort and forlornness, his words were euphonious. You could already feel your future self berate you. Stupid girl.
A hum of acknowledgment floated in the air. Your thoughts were in an indecipherable frenzy while in conjunction, any response you had was trapped in your throat. You were short-circuiting. Failing to comprehend anything at all.
It was throwing vodka back. A burn from your throat, slowly trickling down to the pit of your stomach. The liquid courage coursing through you. Your body overflowing with heat and comfort. But somewhere in your brain were saying this was a bad idea.
It felt good to be with Peter, but that didn’t mean that it was good to be with him.
And yet you were replaying his words over and over again.
I’m addicted to you.
You were going to desperately hang onto that, a reminder for any future regret. It made regret feel like a smaller, less important feeling to Peter Parker’s personal addiction. Even if he never made it feel that way.
Peter’s confession was branded on you, tattooed and etched all over your eyelids, and you had no words to brand onto him.
You didn’t fight the heavy lids and the lead in your blood. You let sleep take you before you could tell him that you had it worse than him.
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a/n: please forgive me, children. a lot of internal conflict for y/n in this one since petey baby is just so difficult. i was trying so hard to push this out that halfway through i started to listen to mario kart music.
this was so agonizing to write for the longest time and then it wasn’t! after two months, i finally found a rhythm and wrote away… please enjoy and let me know your thoughts! it’s the flame to a candle for me (the support and motivation the flame and me the candle… lolz) fire it up boizzz xoxo 
reblog to be put on the taglist
@http.teddy00 @mojesticworlds​ @blackbirdds
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ichorai · 2 years
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no plan ; peter parker.
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track four of WASTELAND, BABY!
pairing ; peter parker x gn!reader
synopsis ; it was the small, spontaneous moments with you, peter realized, that made all of this worth it.
words ; 1.7k
themes ; fluff, established relationship au
warnings / includes ; mild cursing, dancing in thunderstorms, peter being lovesick </3
main masterlist.
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The thundering rain whispered tales of tranquility as the midnight sky rumbled, grey clouds littering across the horizon. You watched the city from the window of your apartment, wrapped in a thin fleece blanket and a mug of steaming tea in hand. You toyed with a piece of frayed fabric, humming absent-mindedly. 
After taking a sip from the still-too-hot tea, you settled into a chair, tucking your knees up to your chest. A book was cracked open with one hand, and you began reading, a small smile playing at the corner of your lips.
It was only a chapter later when your eyes started to droop. Perhaps it was the warmth of the sweet tea lingering on your tongue, or the waning light of the vanilla-scented candle on your desk, or the calming sound of thunder echoing across your room that lulled you into such a state of drowsiness.
Needless to say, you were abruptly ripped away from the enticing prospect of slumber when you heard three rapid, successive knocks. Initially, your sleep-addled mind had presumed the sound was coming from your front door, but you quickly realized that it was most probably the sopping wet man in red and blue spandex hanging upside down outside your window.
Your eyebrows inched higher up your forehead in part surprise, part exasperation.
Leave it to Peter to show up at your apartment in the middle of a thunderstorm.
He tilted his head at you, rapping the glass another three times when you made no move to let him in. You snapped out of your reverie, rushing forward to push your window open, pulling him in with a grimace.
“Ugh, Peter,” you bemoaned, wrinkling your nose at his dripping form. “What are you doing here? I don’t want you swinging around in the rain, it’s—”
Your words trailed off when your boyfriend ripped his mask off his head, hair incredibly mussed and cheeks flushed scarlet from the snapping cold of the rain. He remained silent, hands clutching your hips and pulling you closer to him. He smelled of faint petrichor and toothpaste—which wasn’t entirely a surprise because you could see a bit of dried toothpaste on his jaw.
Another complaint was just on the tip of your tongue, but it was quickly forgotten when Peter dipped forward, his lips melding over yours. You froze against him for just a millisecond before caving, one hand resting on his chest and the other snaking upwards to curl over the damp tendrils of hair on the nape of his neck. His nose lodged against yours ever so gently as he kissed you, mumbling something incoherent against your lips before smiling into you. 
“What was that?” you asked, pulling back slightly to lick at your thumb and wipe away the toothpaste on his jaw.
“Nothing, nothing,” Peter softly said, pressing cold kisses along the side of your neck. “You know, between work and being the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, it feels like I barely ever get to see you. I was just saying I missed you, was all.”
“Is that right?” came your reply, fondness seeping through your words. “Could’ve given me a call before dangling outside my window. What if I was busy or something?”
He ran his nose down the column of your throat as you leaned against your desk, allowing him to shadow over you. “I would’ve waited for you.” 
His frigid fingertips crawled beneath your shirt to rest against your warm stomach, and you hissed at the sudden sensation, lightly swatting at his bicep. “Peter, you’re freezing! And you’re getting my desk wet!”
The way he looked at you made your stomach coil.
“Well, you better warm me up, then,” he quipped, a suggestive lilt to his tone.
You supplied him with a roll of your eyes and a couple kisses littered over his lips, cheeks, and nose, before gently pushing him away from your desk towards the bed. The mattress groaned in protest beneath both of your weights, but it went ignored when he tugged you closer, biting your skin and breathing you in.
“Are you up for a little swing around?” he asked, practically preening from your touch when you started rubbing your fingertips over his scalp, occasionally pausing to gently pull at the roots of his dark hair.
“What kind of swinging?” you said, arching a brow. “Because I’m not going out in this weather, Peter—”
“Come on!” He jutted out his bottom lip in an overexaggerated pout. “It’ll be like those cheesy romance movies—but instead of dancing in the rain, we’ll be dangling off of skyscrapers!”
Your eyes narrowed into slits. “Nothing about that seems romantic at all.” After another second, you leaned forward to press a soft kiss over his sulky lips. “Fine. But if either one of us catches a cold, I’m spoiling the ending of every movie we’re watching together.”
“You wouldn’t!” Peter gasped with faux-offense, before pressing a chaste kiss to your forehead. “You’re evil.”
The two of you dissolved into a bout of laughter, and he swiftly motioned for you to hold on to him. You stuck out your tongue playfully, but wrapped your arms over his neck anyways. With that, he fumbled to pull his mask back over his head and clambered out the windowsill.
The rain felt much harsher than it looked. The drops struck your skin like small pebbles, and the wind whistled wolfishly into your ears. You clung onto Peter even tighter as he shot out the web fluid and swung the both of you away from your cozy apartment, into the heart of the city.
“Oh my GOD! PETER!” you just about screamed your lungs raw when he pretended to drop you mid-air, before zipping down half a second later to scoop you back up. He was laughing so hard that you could hear him over the raucous thunder. 
Eventually, he deposited you onto the rooftop of another apartment complex just a couple blocks away from yours. There were rows of potted plants along the edges, along with sodden coils of fairy lights that were most probably broken by now. You shivered, the cold biting a chill down your spine, but you relished the droplets of water landing on your skin, smiling when a gust of wind sent you straight into Peter’s arms.
It seemed he wasn’t lying when he said he had wanted it to be like the cheesy romance movies—he grasped your hands in his and slowly twirled you around, slowly swaying to a song that neither of you could hear. 
“This feels so weird,” you said once he pressed his chest along your back, nosing your cheek fondly. “We look insane, Peter.”
“I know,” your boyfriend replied with a chortle, before spinning you around again and kissing you once more. “But sometimes weird is nice.”
You hummed your agreement, snaking your arms over his neck and leaning into him.
The two of you danced (or, awkwardly shuffled around) for the next ten minutes or so before the rain started to thin out. You wiped the rainwater off your face with a grin, then did the same to Peter with the dripping sleeve of your sweater.
Offering you his hand to swing back home, you graciously took the extended limb and held on for dear life as he threw the both of you off the building. 
Instead of sliding back into your window, the two of you opted to dance around on your building’s rooftop, scuffing the damp gravel with your shoes. He carefully observed the stars, the late-night drivers, the way the moon danced within your searching eyes. 
Peter felt like he had swallowed a jar full of honey—his throat grew thick and hesitant. So he was grateful when you sat down, legs dangling off the edge. He followed your lead, sweetly kissing the side of your temple. 
No words were exchanged. None really needed to be. 
The two of you watched as the sun began to rise hours later, and your eyelids were drooped to no return. Your head had found its way to his shoulder, breathing evened to a steady rhythm. 
The sun bled the sky a soft peach, followed by clementine and tangerine hues.
“Come on, baby,” he said, suppressing a large yawn behind his mask. “Let’s get you into bed.”
As carefully as he could, he shifted so that he could hold you in one arm as he climbed down the walls of the building, dropping onto the black gratings of the fire exit’s staircase and crawling to your window. He took great care as he slipped in, making sure you didn’t hit your head on the sill. 
Dutifully, he set you down onto your bed and rid you of your damp clothes, doing so with a fond smile permanently etched across his mouth. 
How’d he get so lucky with you?
He found a shirt in your drawers that used to belong to him just a week ago, but he didn’t mind. Peter rather liked the thought of you wearing his clothes.
You drowsily cracked an eye open as he pushed your head through the shirt hole, kissing your cheek and crooning something that you didn’t quite catch.
He motioned back to the window, and you just barely registered that he was saying goodbye.
“No,” you muttered, reaching out to limply make a grab for his wrist. “Stay here, Peter. Please?”
Your boyfriend didn’t even hesitate before splitting into a bright beam, yanking his own spidersuit off to slip beneath your warm blankets. He found it amusing that you had little plushies of your favorite Star Wars characters littered amongst your pillows—Darth Vader’s soft lightsaber was poking the side of his head. 
“You’re cold,” he whispered into your wet hair as he sidled himself against you.
“And whose fault is that?” you lazily droned back, lacking any bite.
Peter mustered a tired laugh, littering slow, saccharine kisses down your neck and jaw. “I love you.”
It was silent for a second, and Peter was nearly offended that you hadn’t said it back, before he realized that you had already fallen asleep in his arms.
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slytherheign · 2 years
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WORTH: THE SERIES | tasm!peter parker
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DESTINATION: Angst Avenue | GO BACK TO THE STATION. CLICK HERE TO SEE ALL THINGS WTS (reviews, commentary, updates, etc. about the series)
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Y/N and Peter Parker have already lost a lot of important people in their lives, forcing them to build up a wall to surround them in hopes of protecting themselves from experiencing the hurt that comes with yet another loss.
Two broken people can only do two things to each other:
Either they heal each other.
Or break each other even more.
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PART I: WORTH THE RISK
PART II: WORTH THE TEARS
PART III: WORTH THE WAIT
PART IV: WORTH THE PAIN
PART V: WORTH IT ALL
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[⚠︎︎THIS SERIES HAS A RATING OF 17+. ONLY 17 AND ABOVE MAY PROCEED TO READ.]
Each part has specific warnings written before the start. Please be warned before proceeding to read. You are responsible for your own media consumption.
Moodboards, feedback, memes, tiktoks, commentary, etc. about the series are greatly appreciated. Please use the official series tag and mention me so I can see it! 
Official series hashtag: #worth: the series
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marvelsage · 1 year
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Masterlist
Avatar:
Neteyam
Lo’ak
Neteyam- Self Assurance
ATWW X MARVEL 2 3 4
Aonung 2
Aonung- The Tree
ATWW 2 3 4
Wednesday:
Wednesday & Wick
Xavier Thorpe- Mind Reader
Bianca Barclay- Rave N Dance
Bianca Barclay- Sparrow
Namor:
Namor*
Namor- Mutant/Bender
HOTD
Aemond T.
Euphoria
Ashtray - 4>1
Ashtray- Training Wheels
Fezco- Crash Landing
MCU
Wanda- I See You
TASM- Flame On
Druig- I’m My Own Boss
Druig- Disguise
Sprite- Honey Bee
Eternals- Twister
Gilgamesh- Passage
Wanda- For You
Druig- I’m John Cena
Shang-Chi- So Your Like The Avatar?
Druig- Shifter
Makkari- Picnic
Thena- Starring Contest
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petertingle-yipyip · 1 year
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Masterlist - 2022
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Please keep in mind that these are marked even with the slightest occurrence. People’s tolerance/preference vary so in an effort to be respectful, I mark them all. I hope you enjoy but read everything at your own discretion. Also, everything is in release date order, meaning oldest pieces are linked first!
^ = Violence
* = Blood/Gore
+ = Language
~ = Explicit/Implied Sexual content
• = Personal/Crowd Favorite
Last Masterlist
Peter Parker
Song for no one (TASM!Peter) *+~•
SOUR Masterlist (MCU!Peter Parker; abandoned)+
Matt Murdock
Woman+~• // Woman 2~+
Fingers crossed *+
Drunk!Matt Headcannons
Angel Baby+
Nonsense Christmas+~
mad at god*+~^•
season one
season two
season 2b
Bucky Barnes
Sin Miedo Masterlist (abandoned)^+*
Marc Spector
Suncity•+
Dirty Thoughts ^+~
Steven Grant
Sweet Hibiscus Tea+
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parkerpeter24 · 1 year
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bloody love . part 3
pairing ➳ peter parker x reader
warnings ➳ hanahaki!au, unrequited love, slightly happy ending, mentions of blood, read at your own discretion.
w.c. ➳ 2.4k
summary ➳ who said love couldn’t kill?
i mean who saw this coming. but i hope you enjoy because writing hanahaki!au has been my oldest wish and here we are 🥰
part 1 | part 2 | part 4
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you were there everyday.
peter saw you every day, sitting on your fire escape, your face in the palms of your hands, looking up at the starts. even though you could barely see any with the amount of pollution in the city during winters.
two months had passed since peter talked to you. really talked to you. he saw you every day in the hallways of the hell everyone called school and every night on your fire escape.
you were so close to him, yet so far as he watched you, sure to stay out of your line of sight. the superhero assured himself that it wasn’t stalking if he was on his patrol and happened to stop by a building that happened to be near your apartment building.
peter remembered the day he landed on the same place your elbows rested now, and looked for you in the dark room and he wished, every night, that he could undo whatever it was that led to this situation. or maybe he’d convince you to talk to him about your feelings as soon as he found out about the disease. or he could express his own feeling which he’d kept dismissing as a ‘silly schoolboy crush’ everytime.
he would just about do anything to get you back.
but he couldn’t think of a way. not for the past two months. not since the day you walked out on him. and as he watched you recede to your room at 09:45, just the same time as every day, he thought maybe he deserved this after all and a feeling of familiar pain took over the brunette’s lungs as he took off.
it was a good thing that ned was talking to him. because gwen wasn’t. he didn’t really expect her to after he’d ghosted her for about as long as he’d known you had feelings for him.
but ned was there. he kept trying to stay in touch even after five weeks of his friend ignoring him like the plague. peter was just grieving and forever grateful that ned understood that.
“the empire strikes back? or return of the jedi? i’m in a star wars mood today.” ned stated as he picked up the two tapes in each of his hands. saturday night was a movie night. ned had invited peter and another girl from his art class, michelle, over. peter didn’t really know her well and she didn’t seem too interested in conversation.
“when are you not in a star wars mood?” mj rolled her eyes, however a little smile played over her lips, as she skimmed through the pages of her book.
“maybe you should decide then.” ned suggested.
“fractured.” mj said within a second, shrugging her shoulders, “it’s a good one. quite underrated.”
ned seemed to think for a moment before he looked at peter, “what do you say, man?”
“i don’t mind.” peter said, giving his friend a pursed smile.
ned nodded and started the movie. as the opening credits rolled in, mj looked at ned and mouthed, “what’s his deal?”
“it’s complicated.” ned mouthed back.
peter rolled his eyes, hearing the two of them whisper around behind his back. however, he couldn’t fight what ned had said. it was complicated. and he didn’t want it to be.
and so peter decided that it was enough.
that night, on his daily patrol, he stopped by the same old building facing your apartment but this time instead of waiting for you to walk out of your window, he swung over and before he knew his fist was against your window, knocking at the glass gently until he saw a figure behind the curtains.
your figure.
you pulled the curtains apart, revealing your face and for a moment peter felt all air knocked out of his lungs. he hasn’t seen you this close since… *that* day.
“peter?” hearing your voice pulled him out of the trance he’d suddenly entered, “um, what are you doing here?”
peter remained silent as the mechanical eyes on his suit grew wider by a fraction. he had decided that he needed to fix this mess. but how; he didn’t bother to think about that. peter didn’t usually feel this nervous when he was covered top to bottom in his spandex suit but now he could feel his ragged breath against his mask.
“okay…” you stood there awkwardly, knowing peter was struggling to say something. you didn’t know why he was here but you weren’t gonna help him right now, “i don’t know what to say if you’re not gonna talk.” you gave him a pursed smile.
“i- uh. i-i want to talk.” peter laid out.
“oh, about what?”
“how’s school?” peter asked as if the past two months didn’t exist at all.
“it’s fine…” you trailed off, “boring.”
“right. i-i didn’t see you in ages.”
“i’m right here.” you nodded at him.
“nice.” peter was trying to stall the conversation but he’d run out of things to say, “listen, can we talk about…” he racked his brain to find something. *anything*
“about?”
“about you? i miss you.” peter sighed, watching your eyebrows furrow at his claim. did you not want him to miss me? did he just make a mess of the earlier mess that he was trying to solve?
he watched your fingers grip the curtains tighter, just about ready to shut it on his face, “pete, i think you should-”
“n-no, no, no. no. please. i didn’t mean that!” peter said, instantly realizing how it might have sounded, “wait, i do mean that. um, do you want me to? mean that?”
you found his nervousness adorable. it was probably easy for peter to think that it meant nothing to you but he didn’t know how easy it would be for him to crawl right back into your heart.
and that’s why you needed to stop this.
“don’t come to my balcony.” peter’s heart dropped to the pit of his stomach hearing you say those words next. you weren’t even meeting his eyes as you added, “please.”
may could tell her nephew was going through a hard time. she saw him sulk around the apartment every weekend and this time around wasn’t any different. she watched him swirl around the last bits of his cereal, deep in thought, “got any plans for the weekend?”
“not really.” her nephew replied.
“what about gwen, maybe you can invite her over for dinner!” may smiled, hoping to lighten the mood.
“that was months ago.” peter stated simply, “i don’t think she’d be interested.”
“then how about we go out for dinner?”
“i appreciate you doing this for me, may, i really do but i-” he sighed, not knowing how to refuse the offer, “i’m sorry, i can’t.”
may hated to see her nephew like this. she’d always tried for him to be comfortable around her. enough to share something that was bothering him this much “just tell me what’s wrong, son.”
“well, i-it’s a long story.”
she gave him an assuring smile, “i’ve got nowhere to be.”
so he told her. he told her everything from the day he found you in your room, to the day you ran away to hide in the bathroom, to the day you left him ‘for the better’.
he just left out the detail where he was going through the same problem now.
however, he did feel lighter after sharing everything with his aunt. she tried to help by suggesting him ideas to sort the situation out between the two of you. the situation was a little too complicated. peter hated that word
the next day, as you were pulling out your physics book from your locker, you saw him approaching you again, “hey.” peter said, waving at you.
you raised your eyebrows at him, “hi?”
“walk to class with me?” he asked, hoping you’d say yes. the two of you shared ap physics so what could be the loss in walking together.
you nodded and started walking so suddenly that peter had to take a quick run to catch up to you, “look, i know we left some things unfigured and-”
“i don’t think this is the right time to talk about that.” you stated, looking straight ahead of you.
“okay. then tell me when will be the right time?” he persisted.
you sighed, finally looking at him, “peter, i told you to-”
“you told me to not come to your balcony. i’m not on your balcony.” your eyes met for a second and peter held them with so much intensity you had to look away.
you hesitated for a moment, “the fire escape. same time as yesterday.”
peter blinked, not believing you were actually ready to talk to him, “are you sure?”
“do not push it.” you shook your head at him and he knew better. so he stood there, watching you leave for a class you two shared.
he hoped tonight would make things better between the two of you.
it had become a habit for peter to land on the building in front of yours instead of directly swinging to your fire escape. he made a mental note to stop doing that.
he knocked at your window, second night in a row. you were pulling apart the curtains again and this time, you got out to the fire escape. peter jumped down from the railing and beside you.
“so?” you initiated, “what is it that you wanna talk about?”
“about you. how have you been?”
“better.” you stated, giving him a little smile, “you?”
“i’m okay.”
“for the record, i missed you too.”
“o-oh.” peter felt his cheeks warm against the material of his mask. the air was gradually turning chilly. the city was on the brink of december but it was somehow still warm. or maybe that was just peter because the next moment he found you shivering as a gust of wind passed by, rubbing your hands together, “you okay?”
you nodded, “a little cold.”
you watched as he shifted a little closer to you, your faces inches apart. you could see all the intricate designs that held his suit together, resisting yourself to reach up and trace along the web-like design, “i-it’s got an in-built heater.”
the two of you stayed in silence, you staring up at the sky like you did every day and peter couldn’t resist but say because he finally had the chance to, “you can’t even see anything up there.”
“you can actually! you just need to focus more.” you turned to face him, catching him already looking at you. you averted your gaze back to the stars quickly.
“look, there’s ursa major.” he pointed out.
“yeah! cool, right?”
“it’s actually pretty hot.” peter said, realizing you didn’t get his joke when you gave him a confused look, “well, because it’s a star and stars are… hot.” he chuckled awkwardly.
“that was a terrible joke.” you deadpanned before letting out a laugh.
“come on, you know you liked it.” peter grinned.
“absolutely not!” you laughed, further proving his point, “however it did remind me, do you want some hot chocolate?”
the two of you made your way inside through the window. peter pulled off his mask finally and you took in his appearance. his cheeks were slightly red, probably due to the cold, hair ruffled as he shook his head to let a few strands out of his face. he’d really let his hair grow out. you avoided eye contact once he caught you staring, “i’ll go get it.”
peter looked around the room. you had done some redecorating. a few of your pictures with him were missing– in fact only one picture of you two together remained on your wall and it wasn’t even the two of you it was a group photo from back when your class went on a field trip– which was a little unsettling to peter but right now, talking to you was a big enough step so he pushed all the other worries to the back of his head.
the sound of two voices arguing pulled peter out of his thoughts. the voices belonged to you and your mother, he figured, and found you two talking about him?
he heard your mom’s voice loud and clear, “then why the two mugs?”
“because i was craving two hot chocolates.” you reasoned.
“y/n. come on! the past month has been so much progress. there were no flowers, not even once!”
before peter could register whatever was happening, you rushed inside the room, slamming the door with the help of your foot as you placed the aforementioned mugs on your study table.
“you need to hide in the closet.” you hurried, pushing peter a bit towards the closet door.
“what? y/n, i’m not in the closet anymore, you know i’m bi-”
“this is not the time to make jokes, please! just hide!” you whisper yelled.
peter placed his palms on either side of your face, sensing your heart palpitating. he caressed your cheeks, way too calm as your mom knocked at your door, “hey, hey, calm down.” he took a deep breath, compelling you to do the same, “i’ll leave now, don’t worry. see you tomorrow.”
he gave you a smile, quickly making his way over to your window and stepped outside before closing the curtains just the way you kept it, while you opened the door to your room, letting your very frustrated mom inside, “where is he?”
“where is what?” you tried to act casually, “i told you i just can’t have enough of hot chocolate.”
“y/n y/l/n. where is he?” she demanded yet again.
you sighed in defeat, finding a sudden interest in the wooden floor, “he left.”
it was her turn to let out a sigh. you could tell she was disappointed because any time she wanted to express that, she addressed you by your whole name, “miss y/n y/l/n, do you know why i’d let you opt out of surgery?”
“because i wanted to?” you offered, giving her a meek smile.
“no. because you were starting to get better. you were maintaining your distance from him and you were healing.” your mother said.
if peter was anything akin to confused before, he was perplexed now. unbeknownst to the two of you, he’d listened to everything that was going on inside. the dots were connecting themselves but peter seemed to be refusing the possibility that it was all true.
you never got a surgery?
peter felt something in his chest but this feeling was different than what he’d experienced for the past two months. he felt an unprecedented warmth spread throughout his lungs.
like hope. like everything would eventually be okay.
─── ・ 。゚☆: *.☽ .* :☆゚. ───
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literaila · 1 year
Text
magnetic attraction 
part one. 
tasm!peter x fem!reader 
summary: after a bad interaction with peter, your interaction with spider-man could not be any more chaotic. 
warnings: ha. angst/fluff. and then. so much banter. too much banter. 
a/n: to bob, who put on her spider-man mask and pretended to roleplay with me (also i don’t hate john green. the fault in our stars is good.)
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*
"hey, what's the answer to number seven?" 
here's the thing. 
despite any and all efforts made to introduce peter into your life as an ex--because you broke up. that's a thing--he is anything but. 
simple solution, you know. 
avoid him. 
follow the rules of break-ups. write yourself a checklist and make sure that there aren't any empty boxes left at the end of the day. no spaces to fill, no void to think about. 
channel the resentment. fuel the anger, make yourself even madder, make him a bad guy so that maybe you won't miss him this much. block his number, forget any important thing that you know about him. 
simple. easy. breathing is hard in comparison. 
and still, you can't do any of it. 
because you don't hate him. you really, really can't. 
and the thing, you and peter have always been magnets. 
even before any of it, you were drawn to each other. 
when he pushed, you pulled. when you pushed--he grabbed on so tight you were worried about blood circulation. 
you met him in chemistry, and after that, you met him everywhere else. 
the grocery store and on campus and walking home from places that peter really shouldn't have been. 
you met him and that was that. 
you have always been lab partners. and you're not speaking to him enough--at all, because there are rules--to fix the issue. to ask to sit somewhere else. 
to break this foundation with a sledgehammer. 
and if there's a tiny part of you that just can't let go--erase a checkmark--then you ignore it. you don't want his warmth. you don't want to feel him laughing right next to you. you don't want to even know peter at all. 
you don't-- 
"what?" you don't look over at him. it's an unspoken rule. 
"number seven." 
"it's--" you breathe in, steal a look at his paper. completely blank. "can't you see it?" 
"what?" peter's voice is so soft, so quiet and unrelenting that you can barely hear it. 
it blares like a siren in your ear. 
"my paper. can't you see it? i can see yours." 
"why are you looking at my paper?" 
this might've been a joke, four weeks ago. 
"peter." 
he doesn't respond. pretends to write something down even though you both know that he was sleeping the whole class--until the teacher came over and asked him if he needed to see the nurse and peter responded with a polite smile which you definitely didn't stare at. 
it's too quiet. 
"here," you slide it over to him, just slightly, looking straight ahead at a poster of a skeleton. mandible, clavicle, sternum. 
you wait. 
"why didn't you just look over?" you ask him, maybe just because you have no sensibility left. 
"it's cheating if i steal it off of your sheet." 
"you're opposed to cheating now?" 
you can practically hear his teeth grinding together, as sure as a drill to a nail. 
you breathe in. fire moves down your stomach and back up. it doesn't take a genius to know that no matter how many deep breaths you take, the feeling isn't going to go away. 
radius, ulna. 
"nevermind," peter slides the paper back to you. he's got bruised knuckles. 
"you don't know how to do any of this," you say to him, pushing it back. 
he pushes, you pull. 
you look back up. sacrum, patella. 
"i got it." 
"peter." 
he is completely silent. 
there are only unspoken words between the two of you. 
"i got it, okay?" his voice is soft, but it's a snap. it's a rubber band, hitting back. 
you both know it. 
and so, your fingertips brush the edge of your paper, because if he doesn't want your help then you don't need to help him, and if he doesn't want to talk to you then it's even easier to cross 'silent treatment' off of the list. 
it only takes him a moment to stop you. "sorry," he whispers. 
and it's enough. because you're feeble. because you know him, even four weeks later. 
you scribble over the list. 
"will you help me with this one?" 
you know that he doesn't need help. you know that you probably do. 
still, you lean a little bit closer--making sure to keep a foot of distance at all times. "okay." 
peter looks at you, a small smile on his face, and you forget to look away. 
you forget all of the ground rules and fall off the edge of the earth. 
you trip and run directly into him. 
and you swallow, tasting the bile before you can push it down. you feel the fire, anger, like you've been trying to throw away. 
"what--" you swallow again, try to take a deep breath without it being too noticeable. "you've got another bruise." 
and a cut. and a yellowing face. and circles under his eyes that can almost compare with yours. 
immediately peter looks away. he hides again. 
you want to feel ashamed, you want to be guilty. but even still--fear isn't something that goes away with him. 
and love, no matter how much you beg it, won't burn itself to the ground. 
"doesn't matter," peter mutters, scribbling on his paper again. "do i need to divide or multiply--" 
"peter." 
he looks towards you, but he's staring at the wall. 
"what happened?" 
"i thought you didn't want any more excuses." 
"that doesn't mean that i don't care, peter," you whisper it, but the words come out of your mouth like an attack. 
peter's eyes meet yours, and you see a flash of something almost unrecognizable. 
"actually," he swallows. his frown sends sparks down your core, leaving burn marks in their wake. "i thought that you didn't want to talk to me at all." 
you struggle for words, you try to reach out and grab them but they're too far. 
this is much more than a worksheet. 
"that's what you said, right? that you didn't want to talk to me until i--" 
"this isn't--that's not--" you're too close to him. 
you're far too close. he's leaned in enough. 
you can feel him. 
and this, god, this is breaking every ground rule. this is unspoken and broken promises and your throat feels dry and your hands are clammy. 
you've never not known how to talk to him. 
peter scoffs, in the silence, into the expanse of the world and directly in your face. he throws back more than you could ever catch. 
and his eyes are completely serious when he says "just leave me alone, y/n."  
the bell rings, and peter gets up. 
he's better at this than you are. 
*
and later that night, you're still angry. 
you're still completely fed up with reality, with being alone, with having to sit there in class and just pretend that it's all fine. 
you accuse peter of lying, but between the two of you, the scales are only balanced. 
maybe that's why you're standing on the roof of your apartment building. 
a bad day, a couple of bad weeks. feelings that wrap themselves so tight around your throat that they keep you from breathing. 
peter, and his smiles, and his eyes--because you know his eyes. 
and you can pretend all you want that you've given him no room to be angry; that he has no right. 
but you'd just be lying. 
a particular brand of hypocrisy. 
so maybe it's self-pity that leads you up the stairs. maybe it's loneliness. 
regret, never. yearning, absolutely not. 
you lie to yourself again and again and imagine that it's all some joke. you'll laugh eventually. 
you don't want peter to come back. 
you don't want to be afraid to look in his eyes, at his face. you don't want to expect him to come home late at night and have blood dripping down his face. you don't want to presume that everything he says--all the stupid promises he makes you--are only lies. 
you don't want precedents. 
and you really don't want to be alone. 
so, the roof. the tiny little things to help you escape from the ever imminent reality. 
peter isn't coming back. you don't want him to. 
and still, talking to him earlier that day, being angry at him, getting him to snap at you. 
it felt like relief. 
it felt like a gasp of air, like drowning yourself for years and then finally deciding to swim up the surface. it felt like scrubbing the infection from your skin, finally, and finding a new layer of yourself underneath. 
it felt like peter. 
and you miss peter. you're not stupid enough to deny that. 
and the book you'd been reading--because the roof is a substitute room--is missing. 
you look under another box. push some spare trash around, hoping that maybe you'd just misplaced it. 
you're doing this when you hear a crash just a couple of feet behind you. 
a quick casual earthquake almost making you trip over the nearest box. 
and when you spin around, still trying to catch your balance, you realize that you aren't alone. 
maybe it's the man that crashed onto your roof--because it is yours--almost tackling you as he came down. he is two feet away from you.
just maybe.
you're frozen in shock for a moment, fingers reaching out to touch him--just to make sure that he's alive--but never getting quite close enough. 
luckily for you, spider-man jumps up before you feel around your pockets for some spare courage. 
"jesus," he says as if he didn't just almost kill you. he looks away, up at the sky, like he's expecting it to laugh back. 
and you stare at him. unsure what to say. 
what to be doing in a situation where a superhero has fallen onto your roof and ended the possibility of any quiet time. 
how to feel when the man turns to look at you, frozen. how to feel when, after a moment, he merely waves a hand at you like he's a celebrity. 
"what are you doing here?" the words fly out of your mouth, stupid and slightly scared. 
"i--" he shakes his head. tilts his head like he's trying to get water out of his ear. 
your brow furrows. your heart stutters off the edge of your ribs. "are you hurt?" 
"fit as a fiddle." 
you blink, trying to comprehend the words at the speed they come out. 
you stare at him, then look up, then back to him. he's whistling, completely casual. 
"you just fell onto my roof," you say, eyes wide. 
spider-man takes a step away from you, shakes out his foot. "was it that obvious?" 
"you..." you stare at him. he's taller than you are. long. breathing too hard. "you're spider-man." 
"pleasure," he pretends to tip a hat at you. you ignore that, for his own dignity. 
you feel your heart climb out from your body, telling you that it's going to take a break. 
"where did you come from?" you look around, expecting a camera and crew to jump out from behind a box. 
"a building," he says, so simply. "was trying something new." 
"it didn't work." 
spider-man looks at you again, head tilted. "ha." 
"aren't you, like--" you swallow. "supposed to be nice? and uh, good at what you do? isn't there a superhero code to... not scare unsuspecting strangers?" 
"i'm nice," he defends. "i'm spider-man," he reaches his hand out as if to introduce himself. 
you stare. blink. try to shove the shock away from your system. 
it doesn't work. 
"i already said that." 
"you can shake my hand anyway. tell your friends." 
you blink. "what?" 
"did i hit you?" he asks, very serious now. maybe concerned. he tries to take a step closer, maybe to look at you, but you move back. 
a bit perturbed by this man being an inch away from your face. 
"i'm okay." 
he tsks. "that's not an answer." 
"i'm pretty sure you didn't hit me," you revise, continuing to step back every time he gets any closer. 
but he is much faster than you. 
"pretty sure?" 
"positive." 
"really?" 
you nod your head, very seriously. you analyze every little twitch of his limbs. 
"because you don't seem okay," he says. he taps his temple. "you might've hit your head." 
"i didn't fall." 
he pauses, movement stopping. "maybe i hit my head." 
"that would explain a lot," you say, the words coming out before you can stop them. 
spider-man is still staring at you. you're pretty sure that you hear him laugh--but you're also certifiably insane, so who really knows?
he waits a moment, like he's searching for something, and then bends down. 
when he straightens, he's got something in his hands. "this yours?" 
you swallow. squint and try to see it clearly. "yeah," you say, "that's-that's my book." 
and in that brief moment, you begin to wonder if you're just imagining all of this. 
spider-man turns it around in his hands, looking at it very closely. "the fault in our stars?" 
you nod. 
"you're reading this?"
you nod again. 
"seriously?" his voice goes up with his words, a bit disbelieving. 
you furrow your brows, cross your arms. "what's wrong with that?" 
"it's just... oh, you know, the worst." 
"you've read it?" 
"no." 
you wait for him to elaborate. he does not. 
"then how would you know that it's bad?" you ask, not believing that you're actually having this conversation. 
that spider-man is judging your book choices. and that he fell onto your roof and still hasn't apologized for almost killing you. 
maybe you did die. 
"do you get out a lot?" spider-man asks you like you're a weird little hermit bothering him on his night out. like he hasn't just made you question every single concrete thing you thought you knew. 
"what does that have to do with anything?" minute by minute, your scowl gets harder. 
spider-man doesn't answer, merely nods his head as if your response gave him everything he needed to know. 
"what?" you demand, trying to grab the book from his hands. 
spider-man laughs. it's a small chuckle amidst the wind. he's got a deep voice. "i think it's a part of my civic duty to keep this away from you." 
"i've never heard about you being an asshole in the news," you mumble, trying again to grab the book from his hands. 
"what was that?" spider-man asks, leaning his ear towards you comically. 
you give up. stare at him for a moment. 
any emotions you feel in this exact moment have no name. 
"for a superhero," you tell him, face void of anything, "you're not very super." 
"what a nice thing to say," he brings his hand to his chest, mock-appreciative. 
you glare. "can i have my book back?" 
"for a civilian," he says, sing-songing just enough to make it noticeable, "you're not very civil." 
you almost, almost groan. you almost, almost laugh. "why are you here?" you demand, again, irritation climbing up your spine. 
why you're his designated target is unclear. 
"don't you have better things to be doing than annoying random girls on rooves?" 
he pretends to consider it. "not really, no." 
"there are no cats to save from trees?" 
and really, you don't mean to joke. you don't mean to let the smile slip. 
"you're funny," spider-man says, leaning back against the ledge of the roof. "why are you here?" 
"i live here." 
"pretty sure that door says 'do not enter.'" 
"you can't see that far," you tell him, trying to look back. you, of course, already know what it says. 
"i actually can." 
you cross your arms again. raise a brow. "how?" 
he taps his head like it's an answer. 
you stare. insist on being as stubborn and unwelcoming as possible. 
"you know, if you don't answer my question i might be forced to alert the authorities," spider-man pretends to look down at his nails--which, as far as you can see--are non-existent. 
"really?" you deadpan. "a masked vigilante, threatening to call the cops on me? for sitting on a roof?" 
spider-man waves a hand. his ankles are crossed. "please. they love me." 
"i can't see how." 
he raises his hands in defense. "wow. after all i've done for you..." 
"like almost murdering me?" 
"like saving you from a friday night alone." 
you frown. 
his words are a gentle reminder. a gentle push over the edge of this roof. 
"can i have my book back?" you ask, serious now. 
"are you going to answer the question?" 
you imagine that he's blinking at you. you imagine pushing him off of the building. 
"it was loud in my apartment. it's nice out here." 
"your family?" he inquires. 
you shake your head. "just... loud in my head, i guess. whatever. i needed a change of scenery." 
"and to read the fault in our stars." 
you glare at him. 
"i'm honestly saving you," he says. "you should be thanking me." 
you try to grab it from him again. "thank you for stealing my book?" 
at that point, he sits on it. your jaw drops but he ignores it. 
instead, he shrugs, so nonchalant. "just looking out for you." 
you sigh. drop your head in your hands and then look back up. "yeah. okay. can i have it now?" 
"how much did you spend on this?" 
"what?" 
spider-man tilts his head. it seems like he's teasing you but you honestly can't tell. 
"i didn't. we had it." 
spider-man clasps his hands together, a professional psychologist. "so you, before the concussion, just happened to spot this on a bookshelf and decided to read it?" 
"i don't have a concussion," you stare at him, squinting. "and yes." 
"are you an avid romance reader?" 
you blink. tilt your head. "i don't understand the question." 
he nods. "so, no. i mean, obviously. no person with any sort of knowledge, or sense would--" 
"hey!"
he shrugs again. "i'm just saying." 
"okay, then, spider-man," you cross your arms again. "what would you suggest?" 
"maybe finding a real boyfriend. or girlfriend." 
you scoff, a little bit shocked. 
somehow, you've relaxed. adrenaline has brought you here and dropped you off, kissing you goodbye. 
spider-man is an idiot. and a jerk. 
"what are you implying?" 
"that you don't have a significant other," he scratches his neck. "i thought that was obvious." 
you glare at him. "and you do?" 
he pauses. raises a finger in the air like he's got something to say. stutters. drops his hand. 
you smile, smugly. "exactly." 
"yeah, okay, but i get out," he copies your stance, staring. 
"when you're crashing into buildings, maybe." 
he rests his chin on his hand. "ever heard of a coffee shop?" he asks you. "great place to meet people. or the subway? an abandoned church? the park?" 
"nope. don't recall," you respond, dryly. 
"this is new york," he gestures around him like he's making a point. like he's got any point at all. "there are tons of people." 
"and yet, you're still alone." 
spider-man scoffs. "i have better things to do. responsibilities." 
"then how come you've been sitting on my roof for half an hour?" 
"i'm helping you, obviously." 
"how do you know that i don't have better things to do, too?" you shrug. "maybe i'm a superhero." 
"no superhero would read john green in their spare time. we have standards." 
"i find that hard to believe," you look him up and down, making note of spandex. 
he balks--or, at least, seems to. "you are not making me want to give it back." 
"please," you flutter your eyelashes, smiling. "i'll even cancel my subscription to the daily bugle." 
he scoffs again, beginning to say something when there's a crash from below the two of you. 
another earthquake. another superhero falling onto a roof. 
spider-man leans over the ledge, looking down at the city below. then back to you, posture changed. maybe a little bit tenser. 
"just for that comment, i'm leaving," he says, but his voice is easygoing, calm. 
you don't think you want to know what's going on under your feet. 
you reach out to grab the book from him--to forget about this entire night, especially the possibility that it might have improved your mood. minimally. 
but in the blink of an eye, he's gone. 
and there's no evidence that he was ever there. not even a book. 
you run towards the edge, worried that he fell, that he just stole your book, or that you really are going crazy. 
and you see him, swinging away with one hand. 
book in the other. 
you turn around, groaning. 
think about performing a citizen's arrest. 
*
when you climb into bed that night, you try to ignore it. 
realities. sitting on a roof in the cold of the night for no reason. feelings that have faded away, if only to leave a mark. 
you try and try to forget about the entire day. 
about peter and his resentment, his lies, his excuses, and how tired he looked. 
spider-man, who despite all else, made you laugh. at least once. 
that lingering feeling tucks you in. 
concern and worry and fear all morphed into something else. something like doubt. something like you can't feel your own heart. like you have no idea whose skin this is. 
a bug crawling on the ceiling, keeping you awake. 
when you fall asleep, it's to that feeling. 
*
part three.
my masterlist here. 
tags:  @moonlarking @v1ci0us @preciousbabypeter @alexxavicry @directioner5life @random_writer1021
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astxroiid · 11 days
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empire state of mind // masterlist
tasm!peter parker x reader
✩ when you're long-time crush comes up to you, asking you out - you say yes right? But what happens if he misses the date? Also, what happens if you ask him on another date?
wc: 4.1k
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✩ i : new york private life
✩ ii : empire state of mind
✩ iii : manhattan longing
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sincericida · 1 year
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“When you’re acting in a scene with him, his eyes change. It’s no longer you’re opposite Andrew. You’re opposite Desmond Doss or Jeb Pyre - you’re dealing with the truth of the character [he’s] created.”
– Sam Worthington, on working with Andrew Garfield
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EXACTLY. IT’S THE EYES.
(source)
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b3ans0up · 1 year
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Team spider ladies!🕷🕷
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