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warrenposts · 7 months

Text

Dulcet

Peter Parker x fem!reader

in which he's struggling

part1| part2| part3| part4| 8.4k

a/n: let me know if there are mistakes <3

He stares at you for a moment– for a few moments– with a busted lip and furrowed brows.

You don’t stare back, feigning nonchalance as you avert your gaze back to his wounds, snatching your hands away from his hold. Your fingers are red with his blood, a sight that makes your stomach churn and your heart burn. As if to make things worse, they are slightly trembling. You wonder if Peter can sense your distraughtness.

“No.”

That's all he bothers to give you. No, and nothing more. Cutting you off, shrugging you away.

“Then don’t come near me ever again after you leave this apartment.”

He sighs deeply and drops his head– rather suddenly now that he feels a bit dizzy from the motion– your name leaving his lips in desperation, hurt and pleading. “Please ask for something else.”

How is it that he can’t see you have no hint of humour on your countenance?

“This is not a game, Parker–”

“Exactly,” he hops in.

The lump in your throat fades with a wave of anger as you’re once more reminded of the ridicule he’s been playing on you. You don’t have anything else to ask of him, whether it is the result of the burning rage in you or the consequences of a broken heart that stings with embarrassment.

“Right,” you nod and get up. “You can leave now. Don’t put pressure on the stitches, I’m not a doctor.”

He makes an inept attempt at following you to the bathroom after sliding the suit up and manages to catch up to you only when you start to wash the blood away from your skin. You realise that the prickle behind your eyes hasn’t left, still threatening to push the tears to the surface because you don't like how his blood can’t seem to leave your hands. How he’s been hurt enough to bleed all over your room and your skin.

“You can’t expect me to put you in danger,” he stands by the doorframe.

His voice is low, pained, but still full of endeavours to reach you through all the walls you’ve built to keep him away. You don’t let it sway you from the purpose of the conversation.

"I thought you said anything, but I guess you didn't mean it," you say, drying your hands once they are finally clean. He tilts his head as you make your way out of the bathroom.

Just when you’re about to exit, his hand grabs you by the arm, stopping you in place. You turn your head, arching a brow at him. A gesture to which he doesn’t display any reaction.

“And you decided that from all of the other things I could do for you to ask me the most scary one?” he drawls, eyes glazing through you.

The proximity is disturbing, and your heart hammers in the ears at the sight of his eyes. No matter how many curt replies you toss around, how many stern glares you shoot, in the end, his body against yours always messes with your head and blurs your senses.

You know you are plotting your own demise with what you are asking from him. Helping him can end in so many detrimental ways, from getting injured to seeing Peter get injured. You’re hoping for the impossibility of the latter and don’t care for the danger of the former.

“I’m not scared, Peter–”

“I am,” he whispers, closing whatever the distance was left between your bodies. You feel trapped against the doorframe, your back lining up with the wall. His face is inches away from yours, and you can feel his shaky breath against your lips. “I’d rather you despise me safely from afar than…”

His voice drifts off just like his eyes, which are running between your eyes and lips. You know why he didn’t finish the sentence; the thing he was about to voice was not confided in him.

He wasn’t supposed to know about your feelings for Peter Parker, Spiderman was.

You should break free from his hold while you can, or your walls will crumble brick by brick under his touch.

“I am not going to die.”

“I don’t want to bet on that, trouble,” he leans in, and you draw a sharp breath.

At the same time, you want to push him away and pull him close. You want to slap him for lying to you and kiss his lips with a fire that doesn’t know how to quench. You want to insult him with words harsh enough to bleed his heart and tell him you love him while pampering his wounds with tender pecks.

“Then let me go and leave.”

You feel intoxicated, you are intoxicated, why else would you close your eyes as his lips hover an inch away from yours? Why else would you let his hand on your arm slide to your waist and then under the cloth to feel your aflame skin?

You curse the garment shrouding his fingers from your body.

“Not before you forgive me,” he breathes, still denying the heat of his lips from yours. His hand doesn't move anywhere, warming the curve of your waist.

"Peter–"

"Ask for something else," he moves his head around, brushing his nose against your cheek, down to your neck.

He inhales deeply, hand around your waist tightening. Before you can dig your fingers into his arm, a tiny and wet kiss lands on your neck, slowly making its way up your chin–

This is wrong. This is so wrong. It's not what he deserves. He shouldn't feel your back arch under his touch, should not hear the short breaths leave your lips, and should not see the daze in your eyes.

Not when the moments of mere hours ago still simmer in your memory.

You open your eyes and pull back, causing Peter to gulp and raise his head. Disappointment gnaws his dark eyes, and you feel the absence of his hand on your body.

“I’m not going to change my mind.”

He steps back, the heft of previous tension leaving his chest with a sigh. “I can’t let you into the fight. I won’t.”

For some reason, you are not quite keen to leave the door frame and miss the closeness you have with him at the moment. “I’m not going to fight, Peter, I’ll just be around to hand you the cure so you can end this mess.”

He shakes his head, and you pad back to your room.

He stares at you, the gears in his mind twirling around. Watching you walk away after the silence he can’t break, Peter allows himself a minute of solitude.

He needs help, it’s obvious; he can’t both fight and carry the cure around. By trapping the creature first, he may inject the chemical into it a lot easier. That is, after he manages to make another one.

Besides, he doesn’t have anyone else to turn to.

He closes his eyes, cursing himself for even considering it. He can’t put you in danger, for god’s sake. There’s no guarantee that you won’t get hurt, and the possibilities are endless. You may cut your finger. You may hit your head. You may fall off a building and die, and what if his webs don't hold you this time?

Thus, he returns to your side, finding you putting the carpet –which has a disturbing amount of blood on it and is now red instead of white– away. Dashing towards you, he moves your body around so you face him. He takes the horrendous-looking carpet from your hands, putting it away to take it with him before he leaves. He knows he is expected to clean it.

“I know you hate me right now,” he says, “And you have every right to do so. But please, please, don’t hate me for trying to protect you.”

“Peter–”

“No, I’m sorry, trouble, but I won’t change my mind either,” he stares into your eyes, not letting you talk further. Before you can protest or complain, he takes the carpet and approaches the window. With a last look at you, he smiles. “Take care.”

And with that, he is out of your room.

Your blood is gushing in your veins, temple throbbing in pain. Your eyes are burning, and you are sure that if you get up and lie down on your bed, your back will ache in soreness from sitting in one position for hours.

At least the assignment is finished.

You close the several books laid open before you for reference, as well as the laptop that has been charging for the past three hours and full for the past two. With a few silent whines and curses, you massage your right shoulder with your left hand as well as you can and walk to your bed.

You are not ready for the back pain, thus, you jump to bed and land on your stomach before taking your phone to scroll mindlessly until sleep. Some people may think it is a waste of time and talents, but you deserve it after a study session that felt like forever. Besides, what else can you do at midnight that’s productive for those people’s taste?

Somewhere in your brain, a voice calls,’read a book’ but you ignore it. You are in no mood for healthy hobbies or coping mechanisms. What you need is to stare at your cracked screen for an unhealthy amount of time before checking the news to see if there’s something about him cast around there somewhere.

Even though it is obvious that any piece of news about him would be in big headlines and impossible to miss.

Still, it’s not your fault that he’s been absent for three days, both at campus and Oscorp and that you’re a bit too worried about him. Surely, if he died, you’d know. Eventually.

You shake your head, shooing the unpleasant thoughts away. Involuntarily, your eyes glance at the place close to the window, where he’d always make himself comfortable to tease you relentlessly.

You miss him. The smouldering pain in your core is enough evidence. The fear for him weakens your will, almost coaxes you to reach out. Every day and night, your fingers find his name on your screen, hovering over it before you decide against it.

You tug the pillow under your head and hold onto it, shutting your eyes to wipe off the soft smile and tender brown eyes. It doesn’t work, and as if to worsen the state of your mind, you remember his hand on yours and lips on your neck.

You don’t feel rage anymore. Only heartbreak, bitter and hot, poisoning your soul with each second that passes without the dulcet tone that soothes your nerves but breaks your heart all the same.

You shudder, and the hair on your body stands in the chill. Who knew missing a boy, even the one with green lies and petty games, would make one shiver in heartbreak?

Also, your window is open.

You are sure you closed it; you have no intention of getting sick during midterms. Perhaps it was yesterday, and you forgot to close it today, as the first thing you did after the lessons was to toss your bag away and start drowning in words and formulas that take your mind off Peter. Or Spiderman. Whatever.

With a groan, you prop yourself up from the bed and turn around.

Oh, Peter is here.

So is your carpet. That’s why your room is cold; he never closes the window after himself.

“Hey,” he says, his mask still on. He has placed your carpet on the floor, standing over it awkwardly, not knowing where to put his hands,

You wish he could take the mask off, and your heart would stop beating wild under your ribcage. “Hey.”

“I brought your carpet back,” he swings his arms, and you are relieved to see he doesn’t have any injuries.

“I saw.”

You yearn for the brown eyes under the white ones and despise yourself for it.

“Sorry for staining it.”

“Thank you for cleaning it.”

He murmurs a quiet ‘you’re welcome’ and moves his head around as if it's his first time in the room. You look for the words that can be said at the moment, which are not many, and fail to move your lips. It’s not that you’re out of things to say to him, you just can’t bring yourself to talk to him.

Why should you?

He takes your silence as resentment and sighs. “Alright then,” he says, “I should get going.”

When you don’t reply, he nods several times and approaches the window.

Your eyes follow him, accepting that this is how it is going to be from now on. Especially after he brought your carpet, he won’t have any reason to visit you and surely any enthusiasm left to talk to you.

You watch him grab the frame, lift his left leg and climb. You’re about to turn around and throw yourself back to bed, not bothering to close the window, when he halts his movements and hops back in your room. With a swift move, he takes off his mask, and your heart skips a beat at the familiar eyes and fraught face.

“Do you have anything you want to say to me?” he asks, and you frown.

“Do you?”

“I asked first.”

“Why are you skipping classes?” you voice the first question popping up in your mind.

“I’m working on the cure,” he bites his lower lip. “Do you still hate me?”

“I don’t hate you.”

Your nerves are overstimulating you, the rapid beats of your heart annoy you, and you feel an agitating warmth around your body as well as the stitches of your shirt.

“So, am I forgiven?”

You scoff in disbelief. “Of course not.”

“Trouble,” he takes three steps forward, his hands wanting to reach you. “I don’t want you in Spiderman’s business, but I want you to be my friend.”

“Two sides of the same coin.”

He’s taken aback by your brusque mannerism, not knowing that this is the only way you can preserve what’s left of your pride and hide the broken heart that still burns for him.

“Peter, why are you here?”

“The carpet–”

“You already handed the carpet. Why are you still here?”

You expect him to fumble an apology and leave, never ever acknowledge you again, and end whatever this is.

“I miss you,” he says instead.

You’d be lying if you said his words didn’t feel like a soothing melody and a tender caress against your soul. Knowing that he is as much in pain as you are eases the hefty cumber.

“Then do something about it.”

“I’m trying,” he tilts his head, eyes pleading with you to crack a smile.

“You’re not trying enough,” you say and turn back to bed, leaving him standing behind you.

You don’t have any plan to back down, mostly because there’s nothing he can do to win your forgiveness except to leave it for time to have mercy on your sadness and because you want to help him end this thing so you don’t have to see him hurt any longer.

He leaves after you curl a blanket around yourself.

His whole world is upside down, and there is too much mess for him to handle, all of them exerting him to the point that all he can do is to lay in bed and stare at the ceiling till three in the morning.

A silver gleam flickers on his walls through the windows, dimming his room with moonlight as his eyes close in exhaustion, a jaded sigh heaving his chest. It’s been a week, seven moons that have passed with you in silence, his body in ache, and some villains out there in content.

His heart is broken pieces melded into one, each beat cutting through him. He is tired. Tired from not being able to do his job properly, tired from repulsing you with his presence, tired from failing at one thing he is supposed to prevail at, because, for god’s sake, he is a hero.

“Peter, are you there?” May’s words echo around the basement, and Peter dashes to the door. He hides the room while passing through the door and smiles at her.

“What’s wrong?” he asks with his softest tone. “Why are you not asleep?”

“Why are you not asleep, young man?” she gesticulates, and Peter gets that she’s annoyed. It’s one in the morning, after all. “You haven’t come upstairs for six hours! Six hours, Peter! What the hell are you doing in there?”

“It’s just a college assignment, May, I–”

“And why is that college assignment taking this long? It’s been four days–”

Peter climbs a few steps and grabs May by the arms. “I procrastinated, May, that’s on me. I’m sorry. It’s a chemistry thing, please go to sleep–”

“Peter, I don’t like how you are these days,” she starts, and Peter feels the frustration getting the best of him. “You’re always in that basement for hours and hours, and I don’t even get to see your face.”

“May, I am fine,” he turns her around. “I’ll be in bed in a few minutes. Just leave me alone for a few minutes, okay?”

“You are always alone!” she protests, and Peter grits his teeth. May is right, he should be in bed sleeping. Lack of sleep does not suit him well. “I’m worried that–”

“May.”

“Listen to me–”

“Aunt May, please. Just go to sleep.”

“I need to know if everything is–”

“Please, stop,” he scowls. “Just leave me alone.”

May sighs and leaves. Peter feels bad for being rude to her but can’t bring himself to follow her to apologise.

It’s not his fault that she is a grown woman and can’t sleep without him. He doesn’t need babying any more, she can get off his back. She’s not his mother, either.

He has bigger problems waiting for him in the basement. A cure that needs to be done in three days and took him three weeks to make at first. He hopes that it was because of inexperience, and this time, he can get the result quicker–

He follows May upstairs to apologise. She’s more of a mother to him than anyone has ever been.

The palms of his hand dig into his eyes, pushing the tears that are dangerously close to escaping and tracing a way down from his eyes to his pillow. His hands are damp, but he doesn’t pull them away. He needs to push the memories down as well as the tears.

The memories flash before his eyes, and the tears find a way to his pillow.

A sob escapes from his lips, and he abhors the sound.

“I want to go home,” a frail and shaky voice calls, and he closes his eyes. He’s glad that she can’t see his face.

“I know, I know, sweetheart, just- just be patient, yeah? I’ll swing you home once this is over,” he says, which doesn’t help. She clings to him harder, and his arms hurt from how harshly her hands are clutching his biceps. Who knew a twelve-year-old could have this much strength?

“You’re lying.”

He looks around, hoping to find a gap big enough to get the girl out of all the debris. He is not sure how much longer he can keep the large piece of rubble from crushing both of them into nothing. His back and knees weaken with every passing second.

“I’m not, why would I lie?” he mumbles and tries to walk with the girl under his arms. A flow of dust flows to her eyes, and Peter moves her to his right.

“So that I don’t panic.”

“Are you panicking?” he matches his tone to hers and drags her gently a bit more. “You’re handling pretty well so far.”

“I’m scared, Spiderman,” she says, and that’s when he knows she’s crying.

“Tell me your name,” his eyes distinguish a twinkle of light, and hope flickers in his heart. He has to get her out of here. “What’s your name?”

“Sophie,” she weeps. Peter can feel her body shake with sobs in his arms. He feels a lump around his throat.

“Sophie,” he calls. “Sophie, listen to me.”

She sniffs, and Peter starts to move towards the tiny trace of light. “Listen to me. I will get you out of here, alright? I’m Spiderman, you know what I do, right?”

She nods, complying with Peter’s lead. When he leaps forward with her still in his arms, holding on tightly, the brick that’s been weighing him down falls behind with a heavy thud, and Sophie screams. His hands find Sophie’s head, protecting it from any possible harm while another heft burdens his back.

He stays motionless for a few seconds. “You there, Sophie?”

“Yes,” she says meekly.

“I need you to be brave a bit more,” he moves his arm up, urging Sophie to look up. His finger points to the space that can grant escape to her. “See the gap there? I will carry you there, and you’ll get out of it. Okay? Can you do that?”

“What about you?”

“I will follow you, don’t worry,” he lies. “Now, I need you to hold on to me very tightly and don’t move too much around.”

Sophie does exactly as Peter says, and Peter hopes that he will be quick enough so the corner of the brick he’s under won’t hit her.

He fails.

When he jumps from under the rubble, the rough edge of the brick grazes Sophie’s bare knees. She screams, but Peter doesn’t stop, not until she’s out of this mess. When they are near, he knows he doesn’t have much time, thus, he pushes the girl out and lets the debris swallow him whole.

He can hear the yells and wails of Sophie and closes his eyes, knowing that he’s safe.

Injured because of him, but still safe.

Peter never knew what happened to Sophie after that. He made sure her parents found her but didn’t know if her knees hurt, if they got infected, if she was afraid of blood. He couldn’t find her to visit and ask if she hated him for lying.

Something that you and the little girl would have in common.

He drags his palm from his eyes to his temples, hoping to wipe away the dampness. The grimace on his face doesn’t prevent another sob from echoing around the room.

He thinks of you and how you ignore him in the yard, during lessons and basically anywhere you two co-exist. Despite your persistent frowns and retorts, he doesn’t give up, wearing himself out just for a word from your lips. It doesn’t matter if it’s a hateful one. Which never is, and that’s exactly what clutches his heart from his ribs and tugs it out.

“Do you want to grab a coffee after this?” he whispers to you. He tries not to mind that you are not looking at him while replying.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I have things to do.”

He recalls how he used to spend the day in anticipation of talking to you at night and sometimes help with the chores around the house– well, as much as his suit would let him help anyway.

“Anything I can help with?”

“No.”

“I got ninety-two from the mock exam,” he cracks a smile, too forced and pained. Hoping it would at least invoke the competition.

“Good for you,” you say without casting him a glance.

He sniffs and opens his eyes, arms falling to his sides. He waits for the blurriness to disappear. When the clear vision returns, he sits up on his bed, staring at the moonlight dancing in his room.

“Did you know Professor Knox sucks at soccer?” He slides next to you before the class starts.

“What are you doing?” you frown at him.

“Sitting.”

“There are many seats away from me,” you nod your head to his right, pointing to all the available places he could settle.

“All taken.”

You don’t say anything more. Gathering your things, you get up and prove that not all places were taken.

He wonders if you are deep in sleep or killing time like him. What if you miss the nightly rambling as much as he does? If only there was a way to pay you a visit without him getting his head and heart broken.

“Have you ever–”

“Peter, stop!” you abruptly turn around, raising both of your hands. “Stop this.”

“I don’t think I follow.”

“Stop trying to talk to me. It does nothing good for any of us!”

He stares at your eyes filled with…he doesn’t know. He can’t decipher you anymore.

On another note, he never has; you’ve just worn your heart on your sleeve before him. Well, not him. Before Spiderman, but still.

“I’m trying to–”

“I know what you’re trying to do,” you cut him off again. “It won’t work. Stop hurting us both. I told you what you need to do for me to forgive you. Without it, I won’t be a part of your life.”

He gulps, looking for the right words. You don’t spare him a moment.

“Quit bothering me.”

A sharp pain tugs at his core when your words echo in his mind. Bothering you was the least of his wishes. He merely wanted to see you, hear your voice, and maybe, if the luck is with him, have you smile.

It’s not fair.

It’s not fair that he has to bear the agonising distance between you and him for the sake of a risk that towers on maybes and what-ifs.

He can’t persevere under this burden any longer, his strength has gone thin, his patience worn out, and his will crumbled down.

He is losing the people of his city each day that he does not finish the cure, stop the creature and arrest the people behind this madness. Just a few hours ago he saved eleven citizens from death but lost three all the same.

The thing was that the eleven saved lives didn’t even matter.

Not for him. For him, the lost three bestow to the heft of his blunders. They grow heavy each year, dragging Peter down to the depth of darkness.

He is a superhero, and yet he bears no power.

“Why is your romantic life nonexistent, Spider?” you ask, and his heart skips a bit.

He shrugs. The buried memories, some bad and some good, want to dig their way to the surface, but he doesn’t let them. He ignores the laughs and cries of loved ones he has lost and left behind, attempting his best to not let your doe eyes perplex him.

“It becomes dangerous with me at one point, trouble,” he slowly rises to his feet. “It’s either the people or the girl.”

“And you choose the people?”

He wants to leave. Can’t bear the thorns of this question. Can’t bear the sting of time prickling his heart.

“Someone has to,” he approaches the window and slowly opens it. “Don’t get in trouble.”

“You’re leaving?”

“Can’t sit on my ass all day and gossip, can I?”

He should’ve sat and gossiped with you that day. Maybe he would have more memories to reminisce about right now. He’s been through every moment with you at this point, has relieved every interaction, analysed every word, and missed every laugh.

He averts his eyes back to the window and the dark scenery outside. The city is asleep.

Are you, though?

Would he find you up, fighting tears on your bed, if he happened to swing by? Would you let him in because three in the morning is such a vulnerable time? Would you kick him out because you simply hate him too much to have him in your space once again? If you let him in, would you allow him to find solace in your arms after seeing the blood-red colour of his eyes?

Would you forgive him if he asked for your help?

Peter knows it’s not what a hero would do. He is selfish, arrogant, and incredibly weak. Yet, he doesn’t think he wants you to hate him when there’s a chance for you to love him, to push him away when you can curl your arms around him, to close the window when you can leave it open.

What if he doesn’t have to lose you?

What if you don’t fall off a building because you’ve been hiding well enough and fled the scene after handing Peter the cure. What if you don’t hit your head or cut your finger? What if he’s breaking your heart for nothing?

Three in the morning is indeed such a vulnerable time.

Your nerves are thin in your temple, throbbing pain synching with your heartbeats. Waiting for the drowsiness to settle, you close your eyes for the fourth time that night.

If only your mind could stop thinking and let you have a moment of peace for a minute. As exhausted as woeful your eyes are, they still linger towards the window that you left open as it was hot.

You cling to the blanket and bury yourself deep under it. Who are you kidding? You are freezing. A few hours ago, you convinced yourself that your window should be left open for the change of air in your room.

He is not coming.

It’s not fair to him that you are anticipating his visit even after all the cold shoulder. Yet, it is not fair to you that suddenly he is out of your life when you have gotten so used to his laugh.

You force yourself up, dragging your feet to the window. You hit your toe on the corner of your bed and hiss between curses. You would think after four hours of staying up in darkness, you could at least see where you’re walking. After the sharp pain turns into a dull throb, you pad to the corner of your room to close the window.

It is indeed cold to leave the window open for four hours straight. You shudder when the night breeze hits you and quickly find the–

You squint your eyes and lean an inch forward. A silhouette of a man, swinging mid-air. Before you can act swiftly and prevent him from invading your space, he’s already crouched down on the frame, and you are taking a few steps back.

He is not in his suit, and his frail brown eyes are locked with yours without a mask engulfing them. He patiently– and tiredly– waits for you to speak, not letting himself in for yet.

You don’t remember the faint redness around his eyes the last time you saw him.

“Have you been crying?” is the first thing your lips blurt out.

“No,” he says.

Your heart breaks– for the millionth time in a day– when you envision him in tears.

“Why were you crying?” you ask, this time tad gently.

“I wasn’t,” his tone is gruff and rough. He clears his throat after speaking.

You step back, allowing him enough space to jump in. He does, standing still before you, and blinks away. His breathing is frantic, eyes resting on everything and nothing at the same time.

Something is wrong. And you are too tired to pretend that you don’t care.

“Peter,” you take a few steps forward, and he finally looks at you. “What is it?”

You watch his jaw clench and unclench, nostrils flare and Adam's apple bob. Only when you approach him close enough to rest your hand on his cheek do you see the bitter tears threatening to spill.

“Peter, talk to me,” you whisper, and he closes his eyes. A tear runs down and damps your palm.

“I’m sorry,” he says with agony in his voice. “I’m so sorry.”

You contemplate your choices for a second. Stepping back and having a reserved conversation, or just holding him till he calms down. You decide he’d feel better if you just held him. For his sake, not because your heart’s ache only ceases when he’s near.

The moment you urge him to your embrace, his arms curl around your waist, pulling you closer than possible. You feel him bury his head in the crook of your neck and sigh before the tears gush.

You hold him with care and patience, and he tightens his arms in turn. Your mind jumps across the possibilities that could’ve broken him and pushed him to the verge of tears.

“Did something happen to May?” you feel him shake his head against your skin.

He inhales shakily and deeply, brushing his nose against your skin while you feel another teardrop on your skin.

“Then what is it, Peter?”

He sniffs and tries to compose himself. “You have to promise me you won’t do anything dangerous,” his muffled voice tingles your skin.

“I don’t understand–”

He pulls back, eyes teary and red. “I will let you help, but you have to promise you won’t jump into danger no matter what.”

You don’t hide your surprise, raising your brows. Your heart takes a pace, and you try not to show how happy you are that you don’t have to avoid him anymore. “I won’t.”

He nods, sniffs, and wipes his tears. “Tomorrow, my place, then.”

And with that, he tries to leave. You don’t let him.

“Wait, that was it?” you catch his wrist, and he turns around. “I still don’t know why you…”

“Cried?” he nods. “I watched a sad movie before coming here.”

Why he is so intent on lying to you at every chance he gets, you’ll never understand. It is unsettling to hear the words hiding the truth dance around his lips.

“When will you stop lying?”

Peter lowers his head and slowly descends on the carpet, one that he has stained and cleaned and brought back – to his usual place. You don’t go back to your bed like you’d always would. Instead, you sit next to him, your thighs bumping.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have lied,” he averts his gaze to you. “It was just a hard week.”

You lock eyes with him and feel your breathing lightening now that he is here again. He is here, he is in your room, he is next to you, and you don’t have to push him away.

“Want to talk about it?” you tilt your head, and he offers you a faint smile. His hand on his knee finds your hair, and he pushes a strand aside.

“No,” he says, and you can’t take offence from the sweet sound when he says it. “Am I forgiven?”

Your shoulders drop. He feels discomfort behind the stagnant expression and stays silent.

You don’t take your eyes off his brown ones and notice the way your heart is at ease. You don’t have any flare of rage burning in you, but a heart ready to heal under his touch.

For some reason, however, it doesn’t feel right to say those words. “Not yet.”

He nods. “Yet means I can change it, right? I can fix this.”

You smile. “Right."

"You didn't even let me say hi to May!" you whisper-shout while Peter drags you down and try your best not to topple over the stairs. "Slow down!"

"You can say hi later," he lets you in the basement, closing the door behind.

He knows May would love to greet you, and he is in trouble for not letting her know of your presence. However, he doesn't want you to hear about how miserable he's been without you–

"You should clean this place sometimes," you say as your eyes roam the room, fixating on the chemicals over a table. He's been working himself out as it seems.

You approach the table, attempting to figure out what stage he is in and how much is left to finish the cure. Peter ables towards you, standing next to you as your mind tires itself for hows and whats.

“It took me twenty days to make it the first time,” he looks at you even though you don’t return the gesture. “I don’t have that much time anymore.”

“The quicker, the better?”

He nods and points to a centrifuge tube apart from the mess, resting there neatly. “I need to prepare cyclophosphamide to use before this week. I can’t risk it getting contaminated.”

“Peter,” you turn to him, something striking your mind. “Do you know who is under that creature?”

“Oscorp’s puppet,” he spits. “I wasn’t surprised when I found out.”

Oh, so he wasn’t sitting around looking pretty while you were out of the picture. Of course, he had things to do; it’s not like he had time to drown in sorrow.

“But who?” you ask, looking up to his brown eyes. He can’t hold eye contact much more, and you notice how he steps only a step aside.

“I don’t know. His name was Mark or something, which is not relevant. He offered himself up for an experiment.”

Your eyebrows shot up. They must have offered him a good deal that Mark gave up on his body. “And the experiment went wrong.”

Peter scoffs, shaking his head. “When don’t they? I believe they intended for him to have consciousness, but it didn’t work.”

“So, they are relying on you to handle this.”

“I’ll handle them as well once I cure Mark.”

“We better get to work then.”

Peter clears his throat and nods, giving you instructions disguised as requests. You oblige each one, putting your best out for him. Your mind blocks any other thought without you noticing. Mixing different compounds, watching them bubble up and change colour, and threatening to blow is a whole different kind of stress that deems it impossible to engage in anything else.

Peter thinks it is for the better. He is not sure that you would appreciate his stealthy peeks at your figure, but he doesn’t think he has the vigour to deny you from himself anymore. It’s been so long without your voice in his ear and without your struts around him that he can’t help himself. He doesn’t want to startle you, but the urge to touch you is nagging him. He keeps his distance and doesn’t let even your arms meet accidentally. However, he doesn’t have enough will to avert your eyes to anywhere that has no touch of yours. How your brows are furrowed and how your eyes jump from place to place make his heart skip a beat. He tries not to stare at your lips when you bite the skin off to soothe your nerves. He fails.

“Peter, are you alone in there? I swear if you are still working on that–” The door flings open, May barging in. Her eyes widen before her lips break into a wide smile when she sees you and Peter side by side. “You didn’t tell me we have a guest today!”

With a flinch, you smile immediately. Not only because of the woman’s sweet mannerism but also because you had a glimpse of Peter’s domestic life, where he gets scolded.

Peter opens his mouth in protest, but you are already in the woman's arms, smiling against her vanilla scent. He begs May to keep her mouth sealed with his face, but is not sure she understands.

“If I knew you’d be coming, I'd have prepared something!” She shoots Peter a sharp look, and he presses his lips together afterwards. “Are you hungry, sweetheart?”

“Oh, no,” you laugh. “Thank you.”

“Let me know if you need something to eat,” she pats your arm after letting you go. “You are here to help Peter with his project?”

You don’t hesitate for a second and nod. “He’s just not capable of doing it without me.”

May waves a hand, “Tell me about it. He’s been grumpy like a kid. It’s been a while since I saw him this relieved.”

You arch a brow at Peter, smirking. “Really?”

“No, May is–”

“Yes, I was sure you guys stopped talking when I asked for you, and he couldn’t say a thing.”

Your heart stings with her words, but you smile. He was missing you just as much as you've been missing him.

Peter steps in, not wanting to risk any more emotional revelations. “No, we’re good, May, uh, thank you for checking in, I’ll let you know if we need anything.”

While he gently and lovingly drags his aunt out, you beam at the sight, watching him leave with your eyes on your back. He doesn’t waste any time reentering.

“From what May said, it looks like you’ve been missing me,” you gloat as he pads to you, towering over you once his steps halt.

“Don’t listen to May,” he says, and you laugh. You have the chance to tease him relentlessly, why not use it? You take a step forward and fail to see his jaw clench from the slowly diminishing proximity.

“So, you weren’t?” you tilt your head.

“I wasn’t what?”

“Missing me,” you observe how he leans away with each tiny step towards him.

“I was,” he breathes. “Were you?”

You don’t reply, stopping in your place. A smile, sly in nature but innocent in sight, graces your lips, ones that Peter can’t seem to take his eyes off.

This time, he is the one stepping closer. You let him. He leans his forehead down to yours but not touching them yet. You let him. He raises his hand to your arm, his fingertips aching for you. You don’t let him.

You step back and turn around, ambling back to your previous place without a glance back at him.

You smirk when you hear his heavy sigh.

This routine continues for several days, tantamount to an expression of passion but akin to a treacherous mockery. You offer a glimpse of hope sneaking behind a door, and shut the door on his face when he reaches for its light.

You graze your fingers against his hand when he passes you an object and then deny him words from your lips because “you are busy”. You stand so close next to him while discussing the right approach to the formula, yet don’t let your arms touch each other. You stare deep into his eyes while toying with his patience and leave him standing when he leans in.

He endures it without a word of protest. It drives him crazy, aches his heart with a fire that burns every worry away, consuming it with an echo that screams your name. It’s excruciating, the way you look into his eyes, and curl your lips into a devious smile, and use the power that you know you have over him time and time again.

He enjoys the burst of desire, knowing he is about to get crushed under the heft of rejection, and he has no control of it. He doesn’t initiate anything, smart enough to know it’s your way of pushing his limit, testing his word, and maybe punishing him with your presence.

He is not forgiven. Yet.

Oh, how he is longing to dig his way to the bottom of that ‘yet’ and pull you behind its futile protection.

“Peter, for the last time–”

“No. Don’t ‘Peter, for the last time’ me. I need to be sure that you actually got that into your thick skull.”

“Hey,” you swat his arm, but he gives no indication of amusement. He has been dead serious for the last half an hour.

“If you’re gonna cause trouble–”

“I won’t! Stop scolding me like a child.”

He shakes his head and walks to his desk in his room. There lies the cure, in raven black, waiting to be injected. He hasn’t let you touch it yet. He hasn’t even let you walk three steps away from him.

Does he think that you’ll get injured in his room?

“Let’s go over it again.”

You groan, tossing your head back. When you see that he is not wavering,”I will hide inside of the store while you take the fight away from people and will wait for you to swing by and take the cure from me when the beast is secured,” you say.

“And?” he arches his brow.

“And won’t jump into the sweet embrace of danger,”you murmur.

“There are still doubts in my head, trouble,” Peter takes his backpack, attentively pacing the cure.

“If I smash your head, you won't have any.”

He stares at you, and you stare back. He’s been wandering around, killing time, and you are sure it was to keep you away from danger as much as possible. But you have no intention of changing your mind.

He’s not doing this alone.

“Let’s just get going,” he gives up, shoulders dropping.

You jump to your feet, attempting to look as enthusiastic as possible. In truth, your palms are sweating with panic, and your heart hammers in your chest with fear. No matter how many times you repeat yourself that you’ll be fine, there’s still a horror lurking, doubting your courage.

“Trouble,” he starts once you are out of the house. “I don’t want–”

“Peter, I won’t die.” You are tired of hearing the same thing over and over again. It does everything but change your mind. It scares you to death but fails to waver you from your purpose. “I promise. Now, cut it out.”

He sighs.

“Think about how you’ll be forgiven after all this.”

He looks at you from his side, and you feel a pain soaring in you. He may be scared for you, but you are terrified for him. You won’t be the one fighting a monster at Oscorp. That is, after he finds where they’re keeping it in the building.

“Will I?”

“Yes,” you nod. “You can swing by my house after this.”

For the first time that day, he cracks a smile. “Sounds like you are missing Spiderman.”

“He was my friend before you stole that,” you retort, but he doesn’t mind. He is watching the pavement he’s walking with a giddy but faltering smile.

“Sorry about that, trouble.”

You don’t talk any more. It’s a painful silence. Both of your hearts racing in fear, not because of the prospect of bleeding, but for the threat of seeing the other one in blood. The yearn for the last touch but refusing to hold on to hope that there will be a chance for another. Another touch, another smile, another kiss. The agony you concede for the happiness to smile upon you is a hefty burden. One that both of you are crumbling under. One that both of you are embracing with hope.

He stops in front of a store close to Oscorp. That’s where you are supposed to wait before he comes in to take the cure. Hopefully, the fight won’t make it there.

“Remember–”

You jump at him, your arms around his neck and your head on his shoulder. “Be careful.”

You feel a tight hold around your waist, pulling you closer to his body. His nose against your neck, Peter closes his eyes and allows himself the peace.

You were the one to initiate it, but he is the one to break it. He lets you go, and with a stern look, “Don’t cause trouble,” says.

With that, he leaves.

You notice that the store is not crowded, which is a relief. You pad to the far corner, one that is away from people and wait there.

Seconds roll into minutes, and your nerves grow restless. When minutes cease to an hour, you think about entering the building and finding him. But remember his perpetual instructions. When they evolve into two hours, you decide to wait just a bit more, and if he doesn’t show up, you’ll leave this place and–

Oscorp’s building’s twenty-fifth floor blows up.

Shrieks rise from the store, and people immediately try to leave. Some stand where they are, staring at the aflame tower, some haste their children to their cars, and some take their grocery bags without paying.

You are one of the few people to leave the store towards the tower.

You don’t feel your legs aching from how fast you are running. Must be adrenaline. Good thing that you’ve taken out the cure and now holding it in your hand, as otherwise it would be in pieces.

Your eyes distinguish two figures– one small, one big; one dark, one red. You didn’t know the monster could crawl.

You think maybe you’ve made a mistake. Maybe you should’ve waited in the store for Peter. Maybe he can handle this.

But it’s too late. You wish you were closer to the building. You watch the two shadows dangle and fight. You notice how they are heading towards the ground.

Your eyes scan the surroundings while your legs sprint.

You chose a spot close to Spiderman when he gets to the ground. You don’t notice that the spot would be close to the monster as well.

You finally arrive at your chosen spot. They are only a mile away.

You watch how Peter tries to bind the monster– Mark– with his web. You watch him fail.

If only you’ve been close enough to throw him the cure–

You are running again.

You are running a mile to help Peter. You are breathless. Adrenaline doesn’t help you. You want to stop. To rest.

Not when Peter is struggling.

Peter sees you before the monster does. He screams at you to get the hell out of there. Which draws Mark’s attention. He– it– averts its ugly head towards you. Peter uses the chance to kick him in the face.

Mark falters.

Peter swings close to you. He yells at you to throw the cure. You throw the cure. He catches it, and it doesn’t break this time.

It’s close. It’s so close that your heart drums in your ears, and you forget that the wise decision would be to run back.

Peter injects the cure into Mark’s distorted body, but not before Mark has his claws on you.

You can’t see if Mark is cured because you have a gash on your stomach. You are lightheaded.

It’s pitch black.

oh how i love complicating things. part 5 will be coming as the final part. thank you for reading and please let me know what you think <33

tags✿: @starsval @taylorann2013 @miwagila @just-henny @pepsicolacoochie @teddtheweeb @1ts-izzy @joanne-uwu @naok-iyuu @hearttjason @itsfloorcry @greenoliver1 @wildestestdreams @patis643 @lovelyweepingrebel @thedavax @qwintlimon7 @delwrites @daddyjackfrost @eddieslooneymoonie @msstillinskimorgan @lilmaymayy @tarzinnia @warrenposts @thehappygrungelife @hearttjason @daddyjackfrost @mishapotato @ihearttities @hitoshislut @sassyrizznerd @aheadfullofsteverogers @booksandfairytales-mainblog @marmie-noir @thelonerlover @ttulipwritezz @unicornforscale @gorillaglue23 @inkthgoat @dinovickydzillarex @simp-sentral

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warrenposts · 8 months

Text

This series revived me

Dulcet

Peter Parker x fem!reader

in which it's complicated

part1 | part2 | part 3 | 7.7k

a/n: let me know if you see any mistakes as i literally wrote and edited it on my phone

Ever since the dreadful realisation has turned your world upside down, you've been more distracted than ever. How can you not when all your mind envisions is Peter and his smile and how his hair dances in the wind and how his brown eyes melt into honey under the glisten of the sun–

“I need to know if I should take you to the hospital or not.”

You should kick Spiderman out. Not that he’s ever overstayed his welcome, he never does. Just that today, after all those feelings and confusion, the presence of another person is a hitch for your daydreams.

“I think my neighbour needs help,” you nod to the window, the gesture which Spiderman repeats. “His house is on fire.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t leave his irons unplugged. He seems like a sensible grandpa.”

“I can definitely smell something burning,” you smirk, and Spiderman puts his arms around his waist.

“Are you kicking me out?”

“Letting you save yourself some dignity by leaving on your own accord.”

He scoffs and descends to his regular place, on the carpet by the wall. “No can do. I’m severely injured.”

You squint and sit down, face directed at his and back leaned to your bed. “Do you have a pimple as ugly as your ass on your face? Chapped lips? Eyebrows that need waxing? What is it?”

Just when he is about to retort, you gasp and place your hand on your chest. “Greasy hair! I can lend you dry shampoo, Spider. No biggie.”

“My ass is not ugly,” he mumbles, playing with the puzzle cube you’ve abandoned on the floor.

The way he left your other taunts unattended urges you to laugh, but you don’t give in. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

You are not the first person to comment on Spiderman’s butt. He brushes it off, instead squirming around to ask the question that’s been nagging his insides without harping on the same matter.

“Are you thinking about Peter again?”

You are, but does he need to know that? Or do you need to admit that your mind has been plagued by his pretty eyes and witty lines? Not yet.

“No, why would I think about him?”

It feels peculiar to lie to Spiderman. Why would anyone feel the need to deceive a masked hero whose only intention is to help?

Unless you are shrouding the truth from your ears and not his.

“How did your apology go?” he hopes that you’re not catching on to his persistence.

The dulcet timbre of Peter's laugh pulls you into a reverie, and you hate the way you miss it or the way it tingles against your soul.

"Not cheap. Man has the appetite of mine when I'm hungry."

Ah, yes, sarcastic humour, the best and the easiest escape route from feelings. One that you know too well.

Spiderman scoffs, and beckons to the plastic cup that was full of liquid a few hours ago. You ought to get rid of the litter around the room.

"You guys went to a coffee shop, how much money can he cost?"

"Amount of money that could've been used for a good cause," you close your eyes and nod. Albeit this conversation is a pure waste of time, you can't help but feel grateful for the company, or the friendship.

"Such as–"

"Buying pizza for dinner."

If he thought of something like saving money for fixing the tiny but nonetheless existing crack on your phone screen, or buying a new kettle for the house, he was wrong.

“I’m sure that money was invested in a blooming friendship.”

From the looks of yesterday, it was. Which is exactly what sends nervous shivers down your spine; the prospect of friendship with Peter. A friendship in which people talk, and laugh, and cry and, god forbid, fall in love with the other, leading to disastrous heartbreak. You feel like you’re so close to the edge of that cliff.

“I’d prefer pizza.”

He nods, ”Pizza it is.”

Before you can ask what he is talking about, he swings out from the window. Unusual departure leaves you frowning and confused, but since you have no way of contacting him, you shrug it off. He’ll stop by tomorrow.

He’s standing next to you with his head low, eyes focused on his phone, fingers struggling to push the right buttons while you are struggling to stop peeking at his moles and lips and hair that adorns his countenance. As if you weren’t already encaptivated by him, the redolent scent was driving you mad.

“All right, done,” Peter looks up from the device. “Now, don’t talk to me ever again.”

You laugh, which makes him smile softly. “Don’t make ridiculous bets with me.”

Almost five months ago, he had tantalised you and driven you to agree to a bet with him, one that had too vague consequences for your taste. But, of course, Peter knew how to push your buttons enough for you to say yes. Fortunately for you, you had won with that last hundred points on your calculus midterm.

In this case, you made him text the tall, brunette and gorgeous girl that you saw him talk to only once a ‘Happy Birthday, Amelia’ song. The girl’s name is not Amelia, and it surely is not her birthday.

“She’ll think I’m crazy, or worse, a rude asshole.”

“You’ll say the text was meant for someone else,” you make a dismissive gesture while walking.

He glares at your sheepish smile. “I’ll just say my cousin texted it while I was in the hospital.”

“Find a credible reason to be hospitalised.”

“Easy,” he keeps the class door open for you to enter, “You insisted on getting me a latte to deliberately poison me.”

“How many times do I have to tell you I got you a latte because I know you love–”

“Would you like to go out to dinner with me?’

Your steps halt at his words. You heard him wrong. Probably.

Who even asks a question like this mid-conversation while the other’s lips are too busy to babble about idiotic things or keep up with the banter in order to get the conversation going so she can have the boy closer a bit more–

“Huh?”

Peter stares at you for a few seconds. Last time he checked, your hearing senses were intact. I mean, you seemed pretty receptive when he said ‘Spiders are not that scary’ a few minutes ago.

“Dinner,” he raises his tone a bit. “With me.”

“Today?”

“Yeah, why not?”

Is this man kidding with you? You wear the most normal expression you can pull to ask the next question.

“As a…date?”

Peter’s blood runs cold. That’s not what he intended. Not at all.

“Oh,” he says, “As friends.”

Friends. You knew it.

Are you guys friends already? Suppose so.

You encourage yourself not to feel embarrassed because of your question. It’s not your fault that it sounded a bit different from what it truly was.

“Sure,” you shrug, feigning as much nonchalance as you can rake. “Where to?”

“I was thinking of pizza,” he glances at you as you pad to a free seat. ”Of your choice.”

You quench a smile, reminded of Spiderman. You wish there was a way for you to mention this to Peter, but unfortunately, there’s not, thus, you simply agree. You’ll mention Peter to Spiderman tonight instead.

After the lessons are over, you wait for Peter in the same classroom he said he’d find you in. Your hunched back straightens itself when he appears by the corner, ambling toward you. You stop kicking your backpack but don’t lift it to your shoulders yet.

“What did the poor thing do?” Before you can react, Peter is already bending to take it and slip up around his frame.

“I can carry my own backpack, you know,” you glance up at him as you two make your way out of the campus.

“You don’t have to, though,” he raises a brow at you, and you roll your eyes.

Not a ‘thank you’ but Peter doesn’t seem to mind. You don’t admit that his silly little gesture didn’t almost make you smile as if you’ve got your phone screen fixed.

“Are you ready to be amazed by my place choice?” is what he asks before he takes you to Dominos.

“I’m amazed, Parker.”

He smirks, roaming his hand through his hair. “You should’ve known by now that I will never disappoint.”

“Yeah, that dude there looks hot,” you nod to a figure close to the corner of the place. “Without you, I wouldn’t get the chance to meet him.”

‘That dude’ there is not even your type. You don’t see Peter grimace at the poor guy, though.

Instead, he grabs you by the bicep and drags you to the menu imprinted on the wall. “I didn’t bring you here to hit on guys. Choose our dinner.”

“Wait, I can’t hit on guys?” you choose to stare at him instead of the menu.

“You should. I’d like to see you embarrass yourself.”

“What makes you think they’d reject?”

Peter shakes his head, curling an arm around your shoulders. “They wouldn’t. No guy in his right mind would reject you. You’d just have terrible pick-up lines.”

His words deem it impossible for you to focus on anything else. No guy in his right mind would reject you.

You know they will haunt your days and nights, but it’s not the right time to let them. You escape from Pete’s firm but gentle hold and turn around so that while he faces the giant menu, you can stare at him.

Your eyes flash with an idea.

“Do you believe in love at first sight or do I need to walk by again?” you tilt your head and give him your best smile, in addition to your worst pickup line.

His brows furrow for a split second before he shakes his head.

“You need to walk away,” Peter says, albeit he’s smiling. He does not glance at you, reading the pizza varieties. “Choose one or I’m choosing.”

“You know what’s on the menu? Me ‘n’ U.”

“And pepperoni. How’s that?” His fingers trace the black letters. You couldn’t care less what you’ll be eating. Especially not when there’s a golden chance to tease him relentlessly.

Gathering every cringe line you’ve ever heard, or read, or witnessed to this day, you throw them right at his face with a shining pride.

“Any chance you have a spare heart? Mine’s been stolen.”

“Apparently your brain as well.”

“You’re so fine you made me forget my pickup line,” you lean on the wall, and Peter throws you a tiny glance between his lashes before averting it back to the menu. Your heart flutters at the sight of his smirk.

“Absence of brain, sweetheart.”

He’s not getting annoyed by this as much as you thought he would.

“How’d you love a raisin? Or better, a date?”

“I’d like a pizza,” he holds your wrist and drags you to yet another corner. “I chose for both of us, and you don’t have the right to complain.”

“How can I when I’m not even sure that I’ll be leaving this place without being poisoned?”

When he orders, you drive your hand to your purse to take out the money, but see that he’s already paid for you. “Peter, you didn’t even let me–”

“How can I after all those lame-ass lines?” he looks at you over his shoulder.

You roll your eyes and let him lead you to the table. Your eyes twinkle with the new potential, and Peter sees it. He looks around, readying himself for the blow. “Shoot.”

“Did you just come out of the oven? ‘Cuz you’re hot.”

This time, he doesn’t conceal his laugh. You take in the smile lines and how his eyes wrinkle with each chuckle. “Hopefully, our dinner is too.”

“That’s it, I’m out of pickup lines,” you throw yourself to the chair.

“Oh, thank God.”

“Are you also friends with Peter Parker?”

“I…” Spiderman drawls, stepping into your room. “Am not. Where did that come from?”

“He invited me to eat pizza with him,” you say and don’t notice the way your lips curl into a smile.

“That’s nice, trouble. Do you think you can patch me up?”

Only then do you notice the new gash on his thigh and the way words leave his lips in a hiss. Immediately every idle thought vanishes into thin air and the muscle memory takes in.

“Did you stop another robbery?”

He shakes his head, and you can’t see it since you’re looking for the first aid kit around the house. You’ve gotten it for Spiderman and his late-night visits.

“I may have failed to cure the creature yet,” he says guiltily, at which you can do nothing but give a sympathetic look. If anyone knows how hard he’s trying, it’s you.

“Did the formula I gave you not work?” you sit on the floor beside him, crossing your legs to acquire a comfortable position.

“No, that’s not it,” he shakes his head and curses when the antiseptic meets his wounded skin.

“I can find what you need at Oscorp, you know.”

“No need.”

“I mean it, it’s actually a lot easier when–”

“No,” his tone is stern, nothing like you’ve ever heard before. “Stop trying to help, trouble, or I won’t come and visit you anymore.”

Your hand stops for a moment, and you raise your gaze to his masked face. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means if my company is the reason you’re jumping into danger then I’ll make sure you don’t have it.”

His words sting, albeit you know they are in your best interest. They mirror the way you’ve been taking his friendship for granted, and the possibility of losing it startles you like the first raindrops on the skin.

You don’t say anything, focusing on finishing the first aid. While your limbs work on auto-pilot, your mind pushes new questions that have been lurking behind the shadows.

You’re guessing that he’s been keeping those words in for a time now, why else would they be voiced now? However, what you’re fixated on is the fact that he can have the means to cut you off easily. You don’t like it, and you certainly don’t enjoy how he can threaten you with it.

When you finish and get up, his eyes under the mask follow you out of the room. He doesn’t know how long he can keep the act up. He will slip up at one point.

He simply wishes to keep you out of the mess; he doesn’t know if those white-cloaked, pretentious professors have contributed to this problem. What if they are not the good ones? What if they won’t let you go as easy as the last time when you’re caught again?

“Trouble,” he calls and gets greeted with silence.

When you return, he waits for you to sit a few steps away from him.

“Don’t stain the carpet.”

“Look, I’m trying to protect you,” he ignores your words. "It won't end well if you insist on doing my job for me."

You stare at him, contemplating your words, weighing your options on where to lead this.

"Then I won't," You decide to give him what he wants, but not before you get what you want. "But I thought we were friends."

He allows himself a moment to think. Forgetting that while he sees you both with the mask and without, enjoys your entity in his life, for you, he is two different people. He realises that the smitten smile on your lips is not for Spider-Man but for Peter Parker, just like how the playful banter along with the deep urge to take care is for the friendship of Spiderman, and not for the hidden infatuation of Peter Parker.

It hits him that for you, his affection and friendship are divided between two personas.

"We are," he says, coating his tone with the kindness you deserve. "I just don't want my friendship to hurt you, trouble."

Your shoulders sulk in understanding, “Drama queen.”

He smiles, but you can’t see it. Guilt is burning around his veins, flames prickling his skin with each moment around you as you confide in him. He has asked you about himself. Again. He doesn’t have the will to fight against your enticing opinions about Peter Parker.

"Even though I didn't admit it, I liked his pizza choice," you shrug, bringing your story about today's charming Peter to an end.

"Parker wasn't a jerk, after all."

He derides himself for the way he craves your nice words. After a long time of banter and bickering, one syllabus of kindness from you has him hooked and addicted for more, and he absolutely hates it.

"I think I may like him," That's all you can confess at the moment. Albeit it's past 'liking' with Peter for you, you feel at ease for letting Spiderman in just a bit.

"Took you long enough."

You lean forward to smack him on the arm, which he lets you. "Hey, took him long enough to get me to like him."

"What kinda like?"

You frown in confusion, and Spiderman elaborates with gesticulations.

"I'd-set-him-up-with-a-girl kinda like or if-he-kissed-me-i-wouldn't-pull-back kinda like?"

The straightforward nature of the question makes you wriggle in your place, but in the end, you know you'll say the words.

"He did kiss me," you remind him with a nod of your head. "I didn't pull back."

"Did you kiss him back, though?"

You push your lips together in a line and shake your head.

"Would you?" he asks. You have no idea of how his heart is racing in his chest, enslaved for that word out of your lips.

"Would I what?"

"Kiss him back."

You chew the inside of your cheeks to fight the urge to smile. The coloured image before your eyes is enough for the butterflies to fly around in your stomach.

"Probably," you sigh before chuckling lightly. "I definitely wouldn't set him up with a girl."

Peter cursed as the door made a violent shutting sound, mentally apologising to Aunt May. That wasn’t his intention but he had come up with a mix of chemicals that can finally be implemented into the formula. Hopefully.

"Peter Parker!”

“I’m sorry, May!”

“Get out of this house! You’re late!”

He is late. He was supposed to be on his way to campus twenty minutes ago, but it’s not his fault that the genius struck midway.

“I’m coming in, Peter,” Aunt May’s voice was approaching by the second, making Peter groan and put his flasks away. Carefully. He scolds himself for carrying the flasks filled with hazardous chemicals around the house.

“May, I was just about to–”

“Did you forget something again?” She flings the door open and Peter shoves the last flask to the shelf before shutting it, hoping that the liquid won't spill around.

“Yeah, yeah, my-uh- my assignment paper that- that has the uh–” he is looking around to make sure nothing is left on display and fails to see the formula you had given him.

“Peter, get out, or I’m kicking you out.”

He nods, a bit too much, and puts a quick kiss on her cheek. “I’ll see you later!”

He’s jogging to the campus at this point, his backpack moving along with his steps. ‘My life is a mess’ he thinks as his sack hits his back with vigour.

A vehement creature to deal with, a scientific difficulty for the said dealing, studies to keep up with, and a girl to visit every night who would mock the life out of him if he didn’t keep up with the said studies.

He shakes his head– which wasn’t a clever thing to do while running– in an attempt to turf your image out of his mind, where it’s already crammed. He fails when his eyes distinguish you around the campus, already engaged in a conversation with a professor whose class Peter missed.

He slowly switches to walking and then stops. Slapping his hands on his knees, the backpack hits the back of his head when he hunches down.

Heat has reddened his face, a drop of sweat ambling its way from his temple down to his jawline, and lungs that can’t keep pace with his need for oxygen.

“Did you run a marathon?”

Something like that.

“I- yes-” he took a deep breath, lifting himself, meeting with your amused visage. He is still panting, moving his mouth like a fish out of water as his chest heaves up and down. He puts his arms around his waist as support. “Figured you’ve been missing me. Didn’t want to keep you waiting.”

You pull a grimace at him in derision. “There are people out there saving the city, and even they don't get sweaty and sticky like you.”

“Do you have any connection with those world saviours?”

His eyes are on the sly smile on your lips; to the eye of an outsider, he’s looking at the person before him, but in his mind, he is taking in the beauty before him.

You, on the other hand, are about to hit yourself for finding a man in sweat, out of breath, and the face colour of tomato– even though it’s starting to fade– attractive. Love is blind indeed.

“Spiderman is my very close friend,” you nod as you walk, having Peter follow you behind. Knowing not many people would believe what you just said, it’s easy to say it as a quip.

“Uh-huh, I’m sure you guys are playing uno every night.”

“We do, he always loses,” You take a mental note to make Spiderman play uno with you tonight.

“I’m not sure Spiderman would lose in uno,” Peter says defensively, at which you scoff. You can totally beat Spiderman in uno.

“You wouldn’t know, you’re not the one playing with him.”

“I still know he wouldn’t lose in uno.”

“I’m much better than him in that game.” You would be if you guys ever played.

“He jumps across the buildings,” Peter argues, and you don’t understand why he’s taking this much more personally than it is, but it’s nice to annoy him. “No, you wouldn’t beat him.”

“He may have the brawn, but I have the brain,” you peek at him over the shoulders.

“You’re saying you’re smarter than Spiderman?”

“Just like I’m smarter than you.”

“Uno is not a brain’s game.”

“I’d still beat both of you,” you nod with a smile you can hide no more.

“You wouldn’t.”

“I already beat Spiderman, Parker,” you turn around to face him and walk backwards. “Just tell me when and where, and I’ll beat you, too.”

“Tomorrow. At my place after the lessons.”

Your eyes widen in surprise, and you almost fall backwards, but Peter is quick to grab both of your wrists and pull you close. You were bluffing. But now that the opportunity presents itself…what’s the harm in taking it?

“Send me the address,” you push your shoulders back, fixing your stance. Stepping back, you take a deep breath to shrug his effect on you off, as well as the burning touch away.

“I’ll walk you there.”

You need to practise with Spiderman tonight.

You dash to the window, practically dragging Spiderman in, the moment it’s open. “Woah, trouble–”

“Are you injured? Dying? Sick?”

“My arm is about to fall off because of you but other than that–”

“Let’s play Uno.”

You expected him to make a sound like ‘huh?’ or ask you ‘trouble, did you hit your head again? I told you to close the upper shelves while doing the dishes, you always end up with a bruise,’ or even place his hand on your forehead to check for a fever, and say ‘why are you like this?’ after seeing that you don’t have one.

But instead, he cackled with laughter. And not gracefully, either. Holding his stomach as if it were in pain, shoulders trembling with each laugh, and sound echoing around your room, he almost fell to the floor with the way he was hunching over.

“You’ve lost it, haven’t you?”

His laughs slowly ebbed, which you could only tell from the inelegant sounds. You wished you could see the way his face would contort and to know if he has dimples or smile lines like Peter.

“You’re so weird, trouble.”

“You’re the one dying from laughter on my floor.”

He chuckles again, lying flat on the ground. His masked hand on his abdomen, he takes a few seconds before beckoning at you with his other hand. “Bring it on.”

After a few minutes, there are red, blue, green, and yellow cards scattered around the floor, as well as in your hands. Your eyes squinted, flip-flopping between the floor and your cards, looking for the same number or colour. Spiderman is more relaxed than you, humming a song while attempting to chatter.

“And the reason you’re making me play this is so that you can gloat?”

You nod with a cheesy smile, putting down a red 9 on his blue 9 and then adding another red 9 again. You’ve heeded that he doesn’t have any red cards. Hopefully, he doesn’t have any number 9 either. “And practise.”

“You definitely need some of that,” he murmurs before putting down three cards in different colours that have 9 imprinted on them. “Uno.”

“This is not a brain’s game, anyway,” you draw a yellow card, as you don’t have any more 9 to add.

He lets out another loud laugh and you fight the urge to do the same. You don’t get what’s so amusing about you today that he can’t seem to keep it in. “Spider, I think the stress of looking out for a whole city is finally getting to you.”

“The stress of looking out for you is bigger, trouble,” he says.

It would be a big lie to say he is wrong. A few days ago you almost broke your toes before Spiderman used his webs to haul the falling iron away from you. It wasn’t your fault that your arm hit it while putting back the first aid kit. You should find a more suitable place for damned iron. Or recently, he had to web you to the counter because you were convinced that you could walk across the broken glass pieces on the floor, and not get your feet cut. He cleaned the floor himself.

“Yet you are still here.”

“Someone needs to listen to your Peter Parker rambles, or you’ll combust.”

“Well, if I don’t talk about it then I may lose my mind,” you play your turn. “He’s so weird.”

He hums and throws a card on top of yours. “Weird how?”

“Remember how I said he invited me to have dinner with him?”

“You accused me of two-timing you guys.”

“I thought he asked me out at first, you know, as a date, because he went ‘would you like to go to dinner with me’ and I got excited before he disappointed me,” You move your head with each point, oblivious to the smile under Spiderman’s mask.

“Did you want it to be a date?”

“What do you think?” you glare at him before averting your gaze back to the floor. “He may not be as smart as I gave him credit for.”

“Because he didn’t ask you out?” Spiderman drew multiple cards and you made a note for yourself that he doesn’t have green. And red.

“Because he calls me sweetheart and tells me ‘no guy in his right mind would reject me’,” You move your hands around to signal the gravity of the situation. “He pays for me, carries my heavy bag around, invites me to his house, and then has the audacity to use the word ‘as friends!”

“I can see your cards.”

“Not the point, though, Spider,” you curl your arms back close to your chest and shield the cards from malicious eyes.

“If you’re so infatuated with him, why don’t you let him know?”

You don’t even glare at him. Of course, he doesn’t comprehend why.

“What if he doesn’t feel the same?”

“What if he does?”

“There’s a good chance that he doesn’t.”

“But also a good chance that he does.”

“Uno,” you say before huffing in annoyance. “If he does then he should be the one letting the other know.”

Spiderman stays silent, and you think it’s because you’ve made him understand, but he only stares at his cards to figure out how to make sure you win. He plays the colour he knows you certainly have.

“Not very feminist,” he nods when you toss the last card before him haughtily. “Again.”

You happily oblige, and start the other round.

“I don't care,” you shrug, eyes on your cards, meeting with each one. “I have no intention of embarrassing myself before a guy. Even if he’s the one I’m falling for.”

He wants to take off his mask right there and kiss you until neither of you can breathe, but refrains.

Your nerves are a mess, tangled around your racing heart as an obstacle for your mind. One would think that your palms are sweating because you’re in the home of a boy whom you fester complicated and nerve-wracking feelings for, but one would be wrong. Those are just chemical hormonal reactions that can not be elaborated on at the moment.

You are sweating bullets because you’re about to meet the said boy’s aunt, which is much more important than having a nice impression on the boy.

Should you take your bag back from Peter? It’s not your fault that he grabbed the heavy thing from you the moment you relinquished the hold. You’re not abusing Peter Parker into carrying your things.

But again, if Peter wishes to do third-grade kindnesses, you don’t have the heart to deny him.

“Ah, so you’re the girl keeping him on his toes with the studies,” Contrary to your worries, she gives you the biggest smile you’ve ever seen before embracing you into a short but nonetheless warm hug. “I’m glad that you two are finally becoming friends. He was being a big headache.”

“I wasn’t.”

May waves a dismissive hand in his direction, and Peter smirks. Her eyes are on you, making sure to welcome you, but so are Peter’s. She engages in a bit more small talk with you, and to your surprise, you feel at ease talking to her. It turns out, she wasn’t one of those adults that judges you with kindness.

It doesn’t take much for her to leave you two alone, and Peter is already hopping around on your nerves. He didn’t even bother to clean his room beforehand!

Sure, you don’t clean your room for Spiderman’s visits, but in what world are the two same?

“I’m not surprised that you’re living in a pigsty.”

“Hey,” he glances at you as you roam through his room. “Just leave the computer desk alone and you’ll be fine. Science projects.”

With a disgusted peek at the scattered papers and flasks of liquids in different colours, you decide to listen to Peter. “These can be dangerous. Why are you even keeping them there?”

“I’m not experimenting here, there's a basement for that. I just need them to be in my eyesight,” making a neat place in his bed and the floor, he finishes his sentence, which you scoff at.

“Where are the cards?”

“Do you prefer playing on the floor or the bed?”

“Floor.” You don’t trust the sanitation of the other.

With a graceful move– Spiderman should take notes. He practically throws himself to your floor– you sit down, cross yourself, and lean to the bed. Peter searches for the uno cards he left around the desk somewhere last night. He bought them just after he left your house swinging last night. The owner of the store had a lot of fun selling Spiderman a game. She even made Spiderman take a selfie with him.

“Did you know Leslie texted me yesterday?”

Your eyebrows shot up, a chuckle echoing around the room. “She did?”

You didn't think she’d bother with replying to the ‘Happy Birthday, Amelia’ song that you made Peter text. “What’d she say?”

“She said if this is an attempt at flirting I’m miserably failing.”

Your insides turn green at the words, albeit you know the truth. “Did you say you’ve been hospitalised and that your cousin wrote it?”

Peter sits next to you, readying the cards. “I forgot to text her back. May sent me to get eggs.”

You know you’re deep in trouble when you feel relieved. Listening to Peter geek about his science project that you’re not really interested in, you don’t notice your heart fluttering at his dulcet tone. You’re too used to it to notice.

“Can you believe that my brilliant work was only worth ninety three points? Where did the seven go?”

“Or maybe your work was simply not as brilliant as you thought.”

“You’re not as brilliant as you thought,” he mutters under his breath as he plays his move and you laugh.

“Your aunt was so nice, Peter,” you look at him between the heating game. “Nothing like you.”

“She’s been bugging me about what’s your favourite sweet, so she can have some at home. I told her that you hate sweets.”

You gasp in betrayal, causing Peter to smirk. Hitting in the arm, he moves away, which only causes you to lean in more to smack him better.

“Your cards are as clear as day, by the way,” he says between laughs.

“That’s what Spiderman said last night,” you sit back and draw four cards.

“Ah, yes, your best friend,” Peter nods, with a smile that you’re too besotted with to look for a meaning under. “I’m sure you even won the game last night.”

You did, only once though. He made sure not to be as absentminded again while playing.

“He declared me as the best uno player in the world.”

“Oh, did he?” Peter chuckles.

“You wouldn’t know, you’re not friends with him.”

“Does he swing you around the city, too?”

He doesn’t. You frown, thinking about how Spiderman has never even once offered to show you the city from the same level as birds. Perhaps because of the way you had reacted when you first met.

“If leaving me hanging on the top of a building counts as that, then yes.”

You have three cards left whereas Peter has two. You scold yourself for not paying enough attention to which cards he has and which not. It’s not the same playing with your friend; you are too distracted with Peter, and his nice smile, and the redolent perfume and the warming proximity.

“And you’re still friends with him despite that?”

“Right? Just because he saves me from some kind of incident every day, doesn’t mean I should be grateful.”

“That’s not what you said just now.”

You smile with all your teeth, and Peter rolls his brown eyes. “He’s a nice guy.”

“You haven’t even seen his face.”

Your eyes abruptly find his, and you stare at him but don’t notice the way his eyes move around a lot after. “Maybe I have.”

Peter’s heart is chirping, panicking because he has to fix this somehow. “No, you haven’t,” he tries to smile. “You’re not even friends with Spiderman.”

He hides the way his frame heaves in relief when you playfully narrow your eyes at him and throw your card. “Uno.”

He lets you win, hoping it will be enough to forget his slip-up. Your gleeful gloating, accompanied by weird dance helps. He even gets lost in your joy himself, totally out of touch with what's happening at this point.

“I did tell you I’d win,” you cheer and he nods.

His heart is beating again, but it’s different this time. He doesn’t feel panic, but instead something warm and aflame coiling around his heart. The fire soars when you slide closer to him that he can feel your arm brush against his. Your lips are moving but he doesn’t listen.

“What?” he asks, tone meek and in a haze.

“I said we should play again, but first you have to get me some water,” you tilt your head and face him.

Peter can swear it’s too hot in the room. And you’re too close. You should back down a bit, a few steps away so he can–

Your lips are chapped. You really must be thirsty and he, the gentleman he is, should be on his way to the kitchen to bring you a glass of water.

But suddenly your breathing is heavy and your lips parted, and Peter can swear he can hear your heart hammering in your chest. It can be his as well.

He knows he should not be leaning in, but then you draw a breath in, and he wants to put his hand on your waist. His mind is blank, utter silence around the sheer black that’s only engulfed around your lips, which are a few inches away from his and he has never wanted anything more.

“Peter,” you whisper against his skin, and he lets his fingers caress your cheek when your warm breath hits his lips.

“Yes?” he asks, and can’t recognise his own voice, because the only thing his body is aware of is you and the way your chest heaves and eyes threaten to shut as you need him the way he needs you.

He doesn’t wait for any reply. You close your eyes, and he lets his hands feel your hot skin, burning with the craving for your skin on his. He leans in, closing the last few inches to brush his lips against yours before crashing them–

“Peter! Are you guys hungry?”

He sighs when you flinch away and turns his head around. He gives you a minute to compose yourself before asking, “Do you need something to eat?”

You shake your head, and he gets up. “I’ll bring your water.”

He can feel your eyes on him as you watch him leave the room. When the door to his room is closed, he grimaces and runs to the kitchen with a grown. “Oh, May, oh May, you’re gonna be the death of me.”

“I have things to do, young man,” she pats Peter’s back as he pours water for you, and only then does Peter realise her attire.

“You’re leaving?”

“Don’t burn down the house, and please handle the sheets afterwards yourself.”

“May!”

Before Peter can convince her that he has no intention of ruining the sheets, May is already waving at him as she’s leaving from the gate.

He shakes his head and pads back to his room where he left you. Deciding to act normal and go with the flow, he puts on his most charming smile when he opens the door.

Except that you don’t have the same energy. His eyebrows furrow in confusion when he sees you close to his desk, with a piece of paper in hand.

“I brought you–”

Oh.

His eyes distinguish the paper. It’s the paper with a formula on it that he abandoned on his desk yesterday. You had given him that paper.

He swallows and looks at your eyes, which are harsh and furious. Your name leaves his lips, quiet as a whisper, akin to a silence before a storm.

You shove the parchment aside in rage, “Did you have fun?”

“What? No–”

“Must’ve been laughing your ass off the whole time.”

“Trouble–”

“Don’t call me that,” you raise your finger, words leaving your lips in a hiss.

Your blood boils with a frenzy of rage, your pride shattering around the place similar to your trust. Heartbreak, embarrassment and fury hit you at the same time, leaving behind a perplexed girl with a jagged heart who doesn’t know how to deal with feelings. Let alone all at the same time.

You had your doubts the moment before your win in the game but decided to put them aside for when you’d have the solitude around the room to look for evidence. You’ve held on to the hope to be wrong so hard that the moment your eyes recognised your own writing each similarity and coincidence kicked you in the gut. Your stomach curled in disgust, you almost felt sick, and your lungs were out of breath.

You needed to leave this place, leave him, but not before letting him know how enraged you are.

“Listen, I’m sorry, I just,” you winced at his attempts at sweet talk.

“Save it, Parker. I don’t want to hear you,” You grabbed your backpack – one that Peter carried so many times and Spiderman said to maybe not fill in that much– before storming out of his room. “Nor do I want to see you.”

You’ve never been this incensed before.

Nothing is enough to splash water on your rage. Memories are like weapons that ignite your nerves, and you are so close to losing your mind. You abhor the shame that’s haunting you with each thought.

For hours, you’ve been recalling each memory with Spiderman in this room, and how you’ve been confiding in him about Peter. How you’ve been telling Peter that you’re head over heels for Peter. It’s unflattering and embarrassing how you’ve been stolen from every privacy and dignity you had against him. Moreover, he didn’t even stop and think about what he was doing all this time.

It’s also a bitter heartbreak. Like losing a friend. You don’t have anyone to complain about your neighbour and his fondness for late-night concerts. You have a bruise on your leg because no one was there to web you away from the counter corner so you don’t hit yourself. And no one was there to share how betrayed and embarrassed you feel.

You can’t mantle the woe under anger. Nor can you shroud loneliness with embarrassment.

The only thing you can do is to lay on the bed, stare at the ceiling and remind yourself to close your window since you don’t want anyone to swing by.

Because you are in the mood for procrastinating, someone swings by your open window.

You jolt up, and open your mouth to yell at him to leave, but can’t find your voice when you see his body in blood– both his and not– his voice in whimper, chest struggling to breathe. He scrambles to the floor and stains your carpet with dark red.

“What the hell…”

“Hey, trouble,” a moribund sound strikes your heart and you jump to get a hold of him.

“What did you do?” you lift his mask, and chestnut brown eyes are begging to be taken care of. You don’t notice that your hands are shaking.

Taking in his body, your eyes heed the gashes around his abdomen, as well as the bruises around his calf and the busted lip.

“You need to go to the hospital.”

He shakes his head, cursing in pain afterwards. “Please just stitch the gashes. Rest will be okay.”

You don’t refuse. “Take these off,” you point at his ripped suit before running to get the suturing kit.

When you come back, he’s bare-chested before you, and you don’t like how his wounds look. Starting the work, you calm your nerves. Or at least try.

“What happened?” you ask again as your fingers work on his skin.

“I needed its blood for the cure. That’s what was missing.”

“And did you get it?”

He scoffs, which hurts him further. “No.”

“Why not?”

“I broke the cure during the fight. Can’t handle both.”

You can help him. He only needs to lure the beast, fight with it a bit so it bleeds and then take cure from you. You can bring the cure where he needs–

No. You’re not helping him. Nor are you offering.

Albeit you're patching him up, anything more is off the table.

Instead, you focus on your work. The way he is breathing is distracting, just like the way his abs keep flexing with each moan and groan.

“Trouble,” he calls, and you fight against the urge to prick him with the needle. “Look at me, please?”

“I’m working.”

“Just for a second.”

You snap your head up. “What?”

He smiles, and it's frail and pale. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t care,” you avert your gaze back to his torso. “Stop apologising.”

A silent ‘oh, come on’ leaves his lips in despair, you ignore it.

“I know I messed up,” he speaks again, and you want to tell him to shut up because tiring himself out won’t help him. “But I didn’t want to hurt you, it wasn’t my intention.”

“Peter,” you warn. “I don’t care.”

“But I know you do! I can hear your heart beating in your chest because you’re angry.”

Your heart is beating in your chest because the boy who has your heart at the palm of his hand is bleeding before you and it’s up to your incompetent stitching skills to save him. You are not angry. You are scared.

Which just means you care.

“Stop talking,” you say finally. “You’re tiring yourself out.”

“I can’t heal if I don’t hear your voice, and for that, I need to talk because otherwise, you say nothing.”

You feel a lump around your throat. The situation in which you are in is ridiculous, and you are surrounded with too much emotion to keep a clear head.

“You are a jerk, Peter. Spiderman is a jerk, and so are you.”

“Tell me how to fix this,” he grabs your wrists, forcing you to look at him. He leans in, eyes filled with regret and pleading. “Anything, trouble.”

The words at the tip of your tongue are not from your mind, and your mind screams at you to stop. To stop and abandon this pathetic love for him. To save your soul, heart, dignity. You don’t listen. You never listen when Peter is the matter.

“Let me help you to cure the beast.”

this turned out longer than i planned, but thank you for reading and please let me know what you think!

also the next part will probably be the last part

tags✿: @starsval @taylorann2013 @miwagila @just-henny @pepsicolacoochie @joanne-uwu @teddtheweeb @1ts-izzy @naok-iyuu @hearttjason @itsfloorcry @greenoliver1 @wildestestdreams @patis643 @lovelyweepingrebel @thedavax @qwintlimon7 @delwrites @daddyjackfrost @eddieslooneymoonie @msstillinskimorgan @lilmaymayy @tarzinnia @warrenposts @thehappygrungelife

#peter parker #peter parker fluff #peter parker angst #peter parker smut #peter parker fanfiction #peter parker fic #tasm!peter parker #tasm!peter x reader #peter parker x reader

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