Hehehehehahrhhahr - Tumblr Posts
there is a light that never goes out
･ﾟ★ most of these days, i don't get too intimate / why would i let you in? but i think again
pairing: tasm!peter parker x f!reader
summary: you’ve tried to ignore the pestering infatuation you harbor for your fellow camp counselor, but when last day debauchery ensues, the lines between friendship and love blur.
tags: slow burn. summer camp. friends to lovers. pining. alcohol usage.
word count: 4.4k
a/n: mother is back and here is my love letter to the feverish bliss of a season and to everyones favorite muse, peter parker + this only took a broken laptop, nicotine and a full year to finish... so enjoy<3
playlist ☆ masterlist ☆ read on ao3 ☆ kofi
You don’t think it’s possible to feel any warmer, but the mixture of everything is weighing in on you. The blossoming bonfire in accordance with the sultry sun. The tipsy hum in your chest. The occasional graze of Peter’s arm against your shoulder.
Sometimes you can’t bring yourself to look at him and this is one of those times.
Maybe it’s the fact that it’s the last day and you don’t know exactly what to do with yourself. Or it could be the muffled buzz in your chest that’s growing by the minute; telling you to do things you shouldn’t. Admit things you can’t. If you look at him for too long, you’re sure that your better judgment will fade into that tempting hum.
You squint past the sun rays reflecting off of the lake and focus on all of the small things that don’t mean anything to you. A bottle here, a crushed can there. The flicker and burn of the fire. The new stains on your old Converse.
You search for the next best thing when a beer bottle appears, floating above your lap.
“Your turn,” Peter says.
His voice makes you want to look. It makes you want to say, huh? Then, he would have to repeat himself and you could watch the way his lips move. Instead, you murmur a soft thank you and take the bottle, eyes cemented on the shoreline.
The campers had left in the morning, and yet the feeling of childish abandonment and delight is still overflowing in the empty campgrounds. The handful of twenty-something-year-olds that stayed back for one last night to “clean up” the camp were quick to revel in the sudden freedom. By the time the last bus left with the campers and older counselors, they were already going on a liquor run and starting a bonfire on the shorelines in nothing but their swimwear. And as nice as it all was, you wish the kids were still there. They would distract you from the thoughts of Peter and now, you don’t know what to do when they come.
As you sip on the lukewarm beer, you feel eyes on you. You look up and sure enough, Peter is staring. His eyes are lighter than normal, a sheen like honey, and his expression is almost quizzical. That glint of amusement catches you off guard.
“What?”
“Nothing,” he smiles. “I’m just waiting for you to admit that you hate beer.”
“What?” you repeat with more confusion.
“Every time I pass you the bottle you frown.”
You furrow your brows. “No, I don’t.”
“Sure you do. And after you drink, you make a sour face,” he says plainly.
You’re about to protest when Peter reaches for the bottle and takes it from you, his hand skimming against yours in the process.
“Creep,” you mumble. You drag your fingers along the skin that he touched and try to ignore the burn. "You’ve known me for like, what? Two months? And you think you know me like the back of your hand.”
“I wish,” he shrugs before downing the rest of the beer.
I wish. You’re biting the inside of your cheek now. “I- I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
You can hear the smirk in his voice and when you close your eyes, you can even see it. His closed mouth grin, full of satisfaction and knowing.
Fuck.
“I’m gonna get a drink,” you mutter, standing up from the bench.
“‘Cause you hate beer, huh?”
“‘Cause I’m thirsty.”
“Mhm, alright, Bug,” Peter says, smugly.
You can still feel his eyes on you as you walk towards the cooler by the dock and as much as you want to look back, you don’t.
You rummage through the cooler— a little more frantic than you should be. Beneath all the shitty beer and ice is a thick bottle of margarita mix and you pull it out in triumph.
“Wow, going for the hard stuff, huh?”
You look up to see Harry standing in front of you with Patron in his right hand and a vape in his left. You scoff, “Says you. This shit is mostly juice anyways.”
Harry settles beside you and watches you pour yourself a cup. He smells like liquor, cologne, and bad news.
“Make me a cup?” He slurs.
You hum in response.
You don’t trust Harry. Not for any particular reason, but he makes you unsure of yourself and you don’t like that. You fill his cup to the brim and hand it to him carefully.
“I’m surprised Peter isn’t here with you.”
You roll your eyes. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Ah, come on. You guys are two peas in a pod.”
“He’s my friend.”
“Is he though?”
“What else would he be?”
“Everyone knows you guys have a thing for each other.”
You’re quiet for a moment, ruminating on his words. Your brain is teetering between joke or not. If he isn’t, then what?
“Just friends,” you murmur in a way that doesn’t reach him. It sticks in the honeyed air like a mantra for yourself.
Ever since the start of camp, Peter and you had been attached at the hips. You were both the new counselors, whereas everyone else had known each other from the year prior. During counselor orientation and the team-building exercises, you gravitated toward each other, sharing awkward laughs and stupid little comments. As the weeks went by, you got closer and closer. You had just met the guy and he was probably the closest you ever got to a person.
“So, that doesn’t bother you at all?” Harry raises a brow.
You look back and Gwen has replaced you on the bench. Peter’s looking at her with such adoration in his face that makes you feel a pang of jealousy. It spreads through your body like a fever.
His cheeks are full of warmth, laughter bellowing out from him so easily. The subtle flex of his bicep has you staring a little longer than you should. When he catches your stare, you mean to look away but the numbing heat makes you forget.
“What? No. Why would it?” You murmur, turning your attention back to Harry.
“Alright. Well, I’ll help you out. Just ‘cause it’s the last day,” Harry says before pouring an ungodly amount of Patron in your cup.
“Oh- I, um. Okay. Thank you,” you stutter.
Harry takes his bottle and taps it to your cup. “To friends.”
“To friends,” you mumble under your breath before throwing back a couple of gulps.
Harry starts to talk about nonsense that you can no longer concentrate on. Your ears had zoned in on the laughter behind you, trying to figure out what was so funny to Peter. Have you ever made him laugh like that?
There’s an invisible string tugging at your face, telling you to look back. Soak up the last of the daylight and the last of Peter, even if it hurts. You want to give into the compulsion, like looking at him is a tick you can’t help, but your attention falls on the dainty bumblebee fluttering innocently in the space between you and Harry.
“Oh, shit,” Harry yelps. His face is full of horror as the small thing dances around him.
“It’s just a bee,” you reassure him.
Rather than calming down, Harry attempts to pull an ungraceful version of the matrix, bumping into you in the process.
“Harry!”
“Fuck, I’m sorry! I just- Fuck!” Before Harry could finish his apology, he’s running far from the docile insect and you.
“Fuckin’ Harry,” you mutter to yourself, looking at the stain of Red40 and Patron on your shirt and then to Peter.
He’s too preoccupied with Gwen to notice the mishap.
Like a small child, it hurts. The possessiveness sticks onto your skin like humidity.
You down what’s left in your cup in one go and start walking to your cabin.
It was that second week of camp when your heart first succumbed to Peter. The two of you were on night watch and he entertained you with a game of Would You Rather while everyone else on the campgrounds slept soundly and the night insects trilled.
Would you rather get stung by a bee or watch Isabella all by yourself?
Give me the bee, you deadpanned.
Ouch, I’m gonna tell her what you said.
You wouldn’t, you scoffed.
You’re right, I won’t. That kid would probably start biting us both.
One moment you’re laughing and the next, he’s whispering, wait, hold on. Stay still. So you do. You stayed as still as the night and suddenly, his hand was inching closer and closer to your face until his fingers grazed against your cheek. He held an eyelash in front of your lips and gently said, make a wish.
You hesitantly whispered a delicate oh, okay before absentmindedly blowing the eyelash away.
I hope it was a good one, he grinned.
It was, you lied.
Everything after was hazy, with constant flashes of making a wish. If you could do it again, you would tell yourself to get a grip and not waste such a precious wish like you just did. If you could do it again, you would wish that Peter would grab that eyelash off your cheek again and again and again.
You’re already feeling the drink make its way to your head as you head on over to your cabin. You underestimated Harry’s heavy hand and the heat is working against you. Annoyingly, the wet shirt is enough to cool you down.
You wonder where the time went. It’s overwhelming to think about, especially now that you’re tipsy. Time is slipping through your fingers and you don’t know how you’re supposed to go back to the city and let this all turn into a memory— let Peter turn into a memory.
In all honesty, you’re not so sure that you can. Eight weeks of children watching and sun soaking. Eight weeks of Peter and all of those almost kisses (two to be exact). Where was it supposed to go? In a shoebox of memories, farther away than you’d like it to be?
There’s a swelling feeling in your chest that quickly dissipates when Peter comes running behind you.
“Hey, hey, where did you go?”
You want to be spiteful and ask him what happened to Gwen. Instead, you bite your tongue.
“I’m right here, Bear,” you say.
“Well, yeah. I mean, what happened?”
“I just wanted to get something to drink and I-”
“You spilled all over yourself.”
“No, I didn’t. Harry did and I need a new shirt.”
“My cabin is right here,” he points out.
“It’s okay, I have my own clothes.”
“Bug, stop being stubborn.” He grabs your wrist, and you have no choice but to stop and look at him. The swelling returns as his brown eyes try to read you. “Trust me.”
“Okay?”
You sigh. “Okay.”
His cabin is identical to yours. Three beds. Creaky wood all over. Light smell of mildew. You were there once before but you try not to think about it too much.
“Here, sit,” he says, patting the mattress.
Like a loyal dog, you obey quietly.
While Peter rustles through the drawers, mumbling where did I put it? you gaze at the Polaroids decorating the wall like his own personal scrapbook.
You notice one particular photo with you in it. You were setting up the projector for the first Movie Mondays. That night The Princess and the Frog played, the lights flickering green and blue on the flimsy screen that took you and Peter too long to put up.
Oh my god, you sobbed halfway into the movie. Ray, the firefly, was singing Evangeline to his star, and it was enough to trigger an embarrassing fit out of you.
Are you crying? Peter whispered.
I’ve never wanted to be a bug so bad before, you laughed pitifully. You wrapped your arms around your legs and let the stray tears fall on your knees. You wanted to pout and blame your hysteria on Peter. He didn’t know it but he had an annoying habit of turning you into a child.
You’re pretty when you cry, he said.
With your head on your knees, you bit your lip. You- you’re stupid.
I don’t think that’s what you say when someone gives you a compliment.
You’re making fun of me.
Am not, Bug, he said for the first time.
With teary eyes, you looked for the truth on his face. His eyes softened. Without noticing, you licked your lips and you swore he did the same. It happened so fast you couldn’t remember and suddenly you were wondering if you leaned in, would he do the same? Before you could test your theory, there was a tap on your shoulder.
I think I just ate peanuts, Susie said.
What?
My throat is itchy.
Oh!
Luckily, little Susie was okay, but you weren’t. That night you couldn’t sleep. That look on his face stuck with you. If you were crazy, you would’ve thought that he wanted to kiss you.
Still, you’re unsure.
You open your mouth to ask him if he remembers that night, but he interrupts you.
“I kind of miss them,” he says, head still in the dresser.
“Your army of fanboys?”
“Yeah, if you want to call them that,” he laughs.
“It was pretty sweet how they looked up to you.”
“Maybe, I should start a cult.”
You snort. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why do you hate me?” Peter looks back at you and tilts his head with a boyish smile that makes you look away.
He returns his attention to the drawers and you begin to get impatient.
“You know I don’t need anything special, right? I just need… A shirt.”
”Bug,” he says firmly. “When did you get so bratty?”
“I- You’re taking a long time,” you redden.
You tap your foot against the old wood and stare at the back of his head bobbing and searching. His hair is overgrown, longer than it was when you first met him. If you were brave enough, you would run your hands through it.
“If you think about it, we were basically paid to be cult leaders for eight weeks,” he says.
“Oh. We’re still talking about cults. Great.”
“How does one go about making a cult anyways?”
“Hold on, let me just look for a cult leader’s TED talk.”
“So sarcastic, Bug.”
“Only for you, Bear,” you joke.
“Good.”
Your ears turn hot and you’re licking your lips again. The raspiness in his voice feels all too serious.
You’re silent again. It’s quiet enough you can hear the Earth past Peter’s search. Trees rustle. The wind caresses the grass. If you listen hard enough, you swear you can hear sunshine, but maybe it’s just the alcohol. Eventually another drawer shuts.
“Here,” he says. He finally turns around and stands up with a shy expression on his face that makes you smile. In his hand is a red and blue tie dye shirt he made in the early weeks of camp.
When you reach for it, you zone in on the beaded bracelet on his wrist, a silly little nothing that you made for him a week ago. You might as well have threaded the beads to say IHAVEACRUSHONYOU, but the nickname you called him was safer.
You partially regret the bracelet as the cringey gift screams elementary innocence, but now you had something of his. You were even.
“Thank you,” you say.
“Yeah. I’ll meet you outside.”
“It’s fine,” you say before you can think. “I mean it’ll only take three seconds. You’ve seen me without a shirt before, hah.”
“Someone’s drunk,” he chuckles.
You turn away before he can see you blush. “Not really…”
In one swift motion, you sling off the stained shirt and drape it along the end of his bed frame and pick up Peter’s replacement shirt.
“Oh, it’s healing nicely,” Peter says, surprised.
You look back in an attempt to look at the once opened wound on your back. “Thanks to you, I guess.”
Due to peer pressure from freshly graduated fourth graders, you had jumped off the cliff right into the lake and your back grazed against a submerged rock. It wasn’t anything serious. Barely deep enough for medical attention and the adrenaline from the jump turned you numb.
It was the first time he touched you, really touched you. A deliberate palm to your side rather than an unintentional graze of the knuckles. It made you think of other ways you could hurt yourself just so the two of you could play an innocent game of doctor.
I can’t just drink this by myself, you whined.
I’m about to put a needle through you, you really want me to drink alcohol right now?
I trust you, you admitted unwillingly.
Once he stitched you up, you sat together side by side on his bed with your shirt still over your neck and your bathing suit now cold on your skin. He pressed his hand on your thigh, saying all better. It was enough to warm you up. Enough to make you forget why you never kissed him. Enough to make you want to.
He squeezed the fleshy part of your thigh, and you exhaled. Peter.
It’s Dr. Parker to you.
One moment you’re whispering, stupid, and the next your nose was grazing his with two parting lips just barely touching. His own breath matched yours. Cinnamon, and booze. Warm and wanting. You gently nudged your nose against his before you could come to.
With lips hovering and agape and adrenaline clouding your mind, you thought he was about to kiss you, for sure this time. But when Gwen knocked on the door, calling out to Peter, kissing was the last thing you wanted to do. The only option was to run away. Run back into that lake and sink all the way to the bottom.
When you throw the shirt on, the fabric grazes against the healing scar. The cotton is soft and weightless. You could immediately smell the familiar evergreen and pine.
“Red and blue look good on you,” Peter says and you have to force yourself to not think anything of it. Friends compliment each other. No big deal.
“You should keep it,” he adds and then you’re thinking, okay, kind of a big deal. But you don’t have it in you to protest. If this was the only thing you could get from Peter, then you were happy. Almost satisfied.
“Alright,” you say and wear it like a promise ring.
By the time you two make it back to the lake, the sun is nearly set. The bonfire melts into the fire in the sky, a burnt orange streak floating above the lake. Smoke and char wafts in the air and you notice everyone huddled up in a circle. There’s beer bottles surrounding them like they were partaking in some kind of ritual. As you get closer, you see the single bottle laying on its side in the middle of the crowd.
“What are they, twelve?” Peter whispers as Flash and Felicia kiss.
They don’t notice you two. They’re far too gone and enamored to see beyond themselves, and you’re grateful. Being the bystander looking in was better than watching Peter kiss someone else.
“Wanna go somewhere else?” he nudges.
You nod your head in silence and follow him like a lost puppy.
You two keep to the lakeshore and walk side by side until you can barely see the stray embers of the bonfire in the air.
A mile away, you eventually reach the west pier. It’s unsoiled with beer and degeneracy, the moon purifying the fresh water and wood. The two of you sit on the dock, feet dangling in the chilling water. By the time the night completely glossed over, the alcohol had too.
“It’s so… Quiet,” you say and suddenly you fear your voice may disturb the stillness and ripple through the water.
“I like it.”
“Just kind of eerie, ya know?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll scare the monsters away for you,” he teases.
Peter places one hand on your back and rubs small circles, a new type of warmth now rippling through you.
Without realizing it, you began to mindlessly kick your feet through the lake, ripples after ripples reaching out to touch the earth beyond. The wrinkles of water pulsate. Your heart does the same with each circle of his hand.
“Should’ve got another beer before we left,” you eventually murmur.
“I’m not fun enough for you?”
I just don’t know what to do with myself.
“You’re less fun without your little cult,” you tell him.
“I’m retiring,” he tells you.
“Oh, God forbid.”
“I’m tired,” he says. “Let me be tired.”
When he lays his head in your lap, you don’t move. You barely breathe.
You wish you could feel the calm, shudder and move on, exhale the hummingbird out of your chest, and be done with it.
It’s heavier than you can manage. The ease and calm of him scares you. He makes a home in you so terribly easy, and you can barely touch him without feeling dizzy.
Peter sighs. “What am I going to do without you, Bug?”
You wish he didn’t say things like that.
You get out a shaky, “I don’t know.”
But you do know. Peter’s going to be okay without you. You’ll just be some girl he used to know and move on just fine. But you on the other hand? You don’t know. You don’t want to.
It aches.
I’m tired. Let me be tired, you beg the cruel universe.
It twinkles in response. Ripples right through you.
Your hands are in his hair. You’re dizzy, but you do it anyway. There’s a soft moan coming from Peter so you play and pull and tug, letting all the anxiety leave your hands like kneading dough. You’re gentle because Peter is gentle. Rubbing your back. Stitching up a silly mistake. And even breaking your heart. He does it so gently, you don’t know if he has a cruel bone in his body. Even if he was cruel, you’re not sure if it would offend you.
He closes his eyes. You drag your nails against his temple and roam freely. The night sky reminds you of fireflies and popcorn. Slow breaths and wishes. You count the dimples on the moon. Little distractions to ground you, even now.
The moment feels infinite. Almost infinite, like those almost kisses. So close, yet so fleeting. You stop trying to make it stay. You let it ripple through you.
You feel a little brave.
“Let’s go swimming,” he says, eyes closed. He can smell it on you— the braveness, you think.
Your hands freeze.“Now?”
“When else?”
“It’s cold.”
“I’ll keep you warm, Bug,” he says, this time with his brown eyes wide, open, and tempting. “Trust.”
He stands up and holds his hand out for you before you can protest. Whenever he mentions trust, it does something to you. The cut above your shoulder blade is trust scarred onto your body. Were you supposed to stray from your habits now? On the last day?
You open your mouth but then your hand is in his and he’s guiding you to the obsidian.
He takes off his shirt and shorts, throwing them on the dock. You follow suit, and by the time you fold the tie dye shirt into a neat square, Peter’s already in, yelping, laughing, coaxing.
You shiver and when you’re in the water, you shiver some more.
“I hate you.”
“I know.”
“Is this your big plan to murder me? Drown me and run back to everyone else and play spin the bottle?” you grumble, less than satisfied.
“Duh,” he smiles proudly.
You’re treading water, feet barely reaching the sand, while Peter stands tall, the moon illuminating his handsome face.
“Why didn’t you wanna play spin the bottle?” you say impulsively.
It shocks both you and Peter.
“Did you?”
“I asked you first.”
His brows knit together. “I don’t want to see you kissing someone else.”
Your brain short circuits. A laugh coils in your stomach and you want to ask if Ashton Kutcher is going to come out of the woods with his crew and yell, Gotcha! It makes more sense than what you think he’s implying.
“What do you mean by that?” you ask.
“What do you want it to mean?”
Your limbs suddenly burn from trying to stay afloat.
“Do you need me to show you, bug?” he says.
His hand is out in front of you again like a life raft. You let him take you, pull you in his gravity. Show me. You glide in the water until you can feel Peter’s breath on your face and your chest is heaving against his. Show me.
Peter wraps his arm around your lower back and your legs have nowhere else to go but wrapped around him. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.
“Still need me to show you?”
Show me. Show me. Show me.
“I think so,” you say so delicately you’re not so sure he hears you, but then his lips are on yours and the sun comes back in the dead of night, blooming in your ribcage.
It happens fast. He doesn’t let you hesitate, retreat back like the scared creature you are. He knows you. He kisses like he knows you. He keeps his promise. I’ll keep you warm.
Soft, tender, and close to loving. His lips overlap yours and your gripping onto his back like this moment could dissolve in this lake. He grips you right back like you’ll run. You could. You might.
He deepens the kiss, more want, more need, less tenderness. He sucks on your bottom lip and the strength to run right out of you.
Your hands wander feverishly. From his back to the crook of his neck and then his hair.
Now that he has you here like this, it makes things more difficult.
You feel like a firefly. This small little thing of shine and glow, jutting around in a mason jar with Peter’s name sharpied on the top.
His lips linger for a second longer and then he pulls away, resting his forehead on yours.
“Bug,” Peter says.
“Hmm?”
“You’re going to call me, right?”
His lips move in slow motion.
“Right,” you say.