Mcu!peter X Reader - Tumblr Posts

Title: 𝒶 𝓅𝑜𝓊𝓃𝒹 𝑜𝒻 𝒻𝓁𝑒𝓈𝒽

Pairing: Apollo!Peter Parker x Cassandra!Reader

Summary: Not even the gift of foresight will keep you from the God who calls you his.

Warnings: Dark!God AU, Stalking, Kidnapping, Manipulation, Dubcon/Noncon, MINORS DNI!

A/N: whew! back from hiatus with my very late entry for the amazingly talented @thanatosfic’s 1K Greek Myths challenge! the real challenge was keeping this under 5k—i literally just barely squeaked by lmao. it’s been a minute, so i know i’m a bit rusty, but i hope you all enjoy anyway. ❤️ divider by @whimsicalrogers

You run because you have to—because you see. He never should have let you see, Peter knows that now. It was meant to be a gift, a glimpse into existence the way they saw it, but it was a mistake.

Humans were never meant to know the future.

At least, that is what he reasons as he pursues you.

You already had a touch of prophecy without Apollo’s gift—his gift. It was what had caught his attention the first time, when your soul was young, and you hadn’t yet learned not to trust him. Just a hint of foresight. That’s what had caught his eye.

But humans are quick and clever—that’s what he would come to learn, especially about you. You who had taken his gift but spurned him. You would make him chase you to the ends of the earth—beyond, had you the power. You were looking at him now, he could tell as he explored the recently abandoned hut that had served as your home in the weeks you had evaded him.

Peter kicks over the camping stove with frustration, carding his fingers through his curly brown hair. It’s been abandoned for a week at least, maybe more. He’d caused this, his eagerness spilling over into the dreams. He shouldn’t have shown you images of yourself, writhing in pleasure underneath his touch—you’re too headstrong for such a direct approach.

He leans down to inspect the bed, lifting the top sheet to his nose and inhaling deeply. It still smells like you, a little. He sighs. It’s been so long since he’s held you the way he wants to—centuries.

Lifetimes.

The lingering scent of you stirs him, and Peter palms himself through his jeans. There was a time before he woke, where he was just Peter, and Peter alone.  He still doesn’t know what happened, when a second set of eyes opened up underneath his, and someone else slipped inside his skin with him. Or was it that he’d used to be someone else? It was confusing to think about the time before this mattered—before you mattered.

He is both now. He is Peter and more now—

He is Peter the God.

Fuck, to have you, finally—the thought makes Peter shudder with pleasure as he undoes his jeans and ruts into his own hand. He’s getting closer, bridging the gap you’ve built between yourself and him bit by bit. He swipes a thumb across the head of his cock, pretending it’s you who’s touching him. He hasn’t had this body yet, hasn’t tasted of you wearing this skin, and the newness of it excites him.

He knows you’re watching as he spills onto the dirty sheets, knows you’ll see him closing in on you, but that’s fine.

You’re out of places to run.

——

“And what brings you in today? I see here on your resume you have some experience in office administration.” The faded silver nameplate pinned to the older woman’s threadbare blouse reads Shirley, and her plastic looking smile parts to reveal lipstick stained teeth.

You force a weak smile of your own. You can’t tell her the truth—the truth that sounds insane even when you think it in your head.

“I’ve just always liked Seattle, and since I’ll be in the area for a bit—”

“Portland.” Her smile widens unpleasantly.

“W-what?”

“This is Portland.”

Shit. Seattle was last month. “Y-yeah. No, sorry, I just moved from Seattle.” You correct yourself hastily. Seattle had been good. Six long months without the visions, the all-too-real dreams that left you drained and terrified.

Without him.

“And was this the sort of work you were doing in Seattle?” The sickly sweet lilt of her voice makes you nauseous. You know what she’s doing—digging—and you want to protest, if you do, you know you can kiss this temp job goodbye. Your righteous indignation won’t pay for the hotel room you’re staying in, or put gas in your jeep or food in your stomach. You want to keep running, but you can’t—not without money.

“Yes, it was. On a more permanent level,” you add, knowing it’s what she wants to hear. It doesn’t matter that you’ll be gone in two months—maybe less, if the dreams pick up again.

“Hmm.” She thumbs through the little packet containing your application, resume and references, and you try not to fidget as she does so. You don’t want her to call up any of the people listed—hell, not even the companies, considering you’d up and left without so much as a see you later when you’d realized how close you had allowed him to get.

“Well. Everything looks to be in order…” She places the manila folder down with a snap. “I’ll make the call. You should hear from them no later than tomorrow afternoon with your hours. Please be on time.”

“Thank you so much, Shirley.”

“Mrs. Harscombe.” She corrects you with an oily smile. “And you’re quite welcome.” You know you shouldn’t risk looking into Shirley Harscombe, you know it’s only a waste of your time and energy, and it’ll only lead the Peter-Apollo-thing to you that much faster, but you’re doing it before you really mean to, peering into her future and all its possibilities. It’s like being swept down a raging river and all of it’s streams all at once, and her life thrums around you like a heartbeat.

You see Shirley standing in her kitchen as her husband berates her with a beer in his hand. You blink, and there’s Shirley—opening a second bank account, a secret bank account so that her husband—Ben is his name—doesn’t drink away all of their retirement funds, or else she’ll have to work till she’s seventy. You blink—and there is Shirley.

Smiling smugly at you as she gloats over the scrap of power she wields. You don’t feel angry at Shirley—not anymore.

“Have a good day.” You gather your bag and sweater as she stamps something on your file and enters it into the system with a few keystrokes on her computer. You head for the door, but linger in the threshold, hesitating.

“Mrs. Harscombe?” She looks up at you with the same thin smile, like an adult humoring an irritating child. “Separate bank accounts isn’t enough. You should leave him.” She sputters after you as you walk out of the door, down the hallway and out into the gray afternoon.

—

You hear from the nursing home the very next day, and by the middle of the week, you’re already well adjusted to your new schedule. Everything is simple enough, and aside from the occasional rude patient, you have little to complain about. The physicians and nurses are nice enough, and they don’t ask too many questions about your life outside of work, and you appreciate that more than anything.

Your check deposits on the first Friday with ease, and you pay for another week of your hotel room up front. You don’t dream, either. Only blissful darkness greets you when you close your eyes, and you’re more grateful for that than anything. Not having to see Peter’s curly brown hair or boyish, lopsided grin as he greets you in your dreams is a blessing.

Those fucking dreams.

It’s too real, his phantom touch lingering on your skin hours after you wake.

You used to wonder who he was before, but it doesn’t really matter, not now. Not now that thing had attached itself to him like a leech. You don’t know what happens when something rides your soul, wears you like a costume, but you don’t want to find out.

I won’t.

Your resolve doesn’t sound as strong as it used to, not even in your own head. It doesn’t help that you’re exhausted, running on fumes with less and less time in between your harrowing escapes. Not for the first time, you cast a narrowed glare upward, not really at your ceiling but beyond it, at whatever cosmic forces had dealt you such a cruel hand.

It’s not everyone that has a mad God after them.

It’s the waiting that’s the hardest.

The first few times you’d been naive. You’d truly believed you had shaken him of your scent—and so you had started fresh. New hair, new clothes, new I.D., new you. Peter would never find you, and his delusions would never again darken your door—at least, that was what you’d believed.

What a fool you had been.

And your shock to see him sitting in your new apartment, his feet perched on the coffee table as he thumbed through your magazines—nothing had ever matched up to it, before or since.

“Hi, princess. I missed you.”

And he’d truly thought he had you then—and so had you, really, until the bus had turned him into a bloody smear on the pavement. You didn’t look back then, and you still don’t now. You don’t know how he’s still alive, how the thing infesting him managed to draw life back into his mangled body, but you do know it means he won’t stop.

He won’t stop ever.

And so you wait. You wait for the tense buzzing in the back of your skull, for the sound of his laughter in the darkness of your dreams—

You wait for him.

__

“He’s looking for you.” The voice makes your head snap up, your fingers tightening on the edge of the reception desk. Mrs. O’Malley is sitting in her wheelchair, her tight, displeased expression flooding you with relief, and then annoyance. Your heart is pounding against your ribs, and you try to slow it as you give her a wan, impatient smile.

“Boris?” You ask, jerking your head towards the slumbering orderly in the corner. Mrs. O’Malley is the sort of woman who likes telling people what to do and how to do it, a habit that you assume has only gotten worse with time, turning her from bossy to battleaxe.

“I don’t think he’s looking for anything except the back of his own eyelids. Is there something I can get for you?”

“Not him,” she snaps, scoffing. “The boy,” she leans close, like she’s telling you a secret. “The one with laurels in his hair.” Your stomach fills with hot lead, and your throat grows painfully tight.

No.

“W-what?” Your thin smile is frozen on your face, but it isn’t a smile anymore, just a terrified grimace that won’t slip from your paralyzed features. “I—your medicine—” You fumble clumsily for the nurse-alert button on your desk, knocking over a cup of pens in the process. Mrs. O’Malley’s voice is like dry, withered reeds, but her grip is like iron when she grips your wrist.

“He’s looking for you,” she repeats, her bony fingers digging into your skin. “The boy with eyes that burn like the sun, bright, bright—” You rip yourself away from her, hissing as her nails rake long, red lines down the skin of your  forearm. You slam your fist down on the button as she launches herself across the desk.

“Stop! Get the fuck off me—” There shouldn’t be this much strength left in Mrs. O’Malley’s arthritis-bent fingers as she tears at the sleeves of your sweater, trying to get a better hold on you.

“Don’t run from him!” She screeches, spittle flecking your cheeks. She’s shaking you like a rag doll, her fingers driving into the meat of your shoulders like needles. “Stop running from him!” Your head is snapping back and forth so hard you think your neck might actually break, and through her shrieking, you can hear the sound of frantic footsteps.

Someone wrestles the old woman off of you, and you lay there, staring dizzily up at the humming fluorescent lights. How could she know that? You aren’t cold, but your skin prickles anyway, like you’re being watched.

The boy with the laurels in his hair.

You don’t wait to watch as the orderlies to wrestle Mrs. O’Malley onto a gurney, strapping her flailing limbs down to the thin mattress while she rages. Her nonsensical shouts echo down the hallway as they wheel her off.

“Don’t run from him! Eyes like the sun!”

By the time Boris turns to check on you, an apologetic smile on his face,  you’re already gone, half running down the darkening street.

—

The lobby of the hotel is as you left it that morning, empty and quiet. The receptionist doesn’t look up from her copy of People as you hurry by, already tallying up your meager belongings in your head. You have escaping down to a science now, a list of steps to take before you can throw yourself into the driver’s seat of your old jeep to race as far as your tank will take you, only to begin it all over again.

You aren’t neat about it, throwing open the door to your hotel room, the thud of the handle meeting the wall mixing easily with the noise of the city nightlife floating in through your window. Before it even closes, you’re already shoving what little clothing you have into a worn duffel bag. You’re chanting in your head, listing all the items you know you can’t forget.

Toothbrush. Phone. Wallet. Laptop.

You leave the scrubs you scavenged from Goodwill over the shower railing, where you’d hung them to dry after a vigorous hand-washing, and you leave your third or fourth hand nurses shoes there too, along with the key-card with your fake name on it. You won’t need those where you’re going.

Where am I going?

The thought makes you pause, your hands stilling on the pair of jeans you’re stuffing into your bag. You’re not sure. You’ve never moved with a plan, any sort of pattern, but that isn’t what makes you stop—no. It’s the larger question, the one that looms constantly over you. Closer to the front when you’re sleeping in the driver’s seat and taking bird baths in truck station bathrooms, but distant when you’re comfortable in hotel beds.

Where is your life going?

You try not to think about it, to push the thought back, back—but it won’t go. It stays stuck in your proverbial craw like toffee, only more unpleasant. Is this all there is? Running and hiding like a fucking rat? Your own grim expression meets your eye when it drifts to the mirror above the dresser.

Is it better than the alternative?

You finish shoving your clothes and most prized possessions into your few bags before shouldering them with a heavy sigh.

“South, maybe,” you say aloud, knowing you won’t go south at all—you’ll go east, to the big cities, to where you can get lost just like all the other souls. You reach for the doorknob and tug it open, stepping out into the hallway—

And right into a solid, warm body.

“Oh, sorry, I—”

“No need to apologize, princess.”

Your blood turns to ice, your chest tightening painfully. It isn’t possible, you know it isn’t—but it is and it must be because he’s here. It’s disgusting how certain you are, even without seeing his face. How sure, because the scent of him hasn’t changed, the piney aftershave and shampoo that’s just so Peter. There’s something warm and spiced underneath it, something that reminds you of warm sun on a summer day.

He smells like this in the dreams, too.

“Did you miss me?” He asks, reaching forward to curl a lock of your hair around his finger. “I missed you.” You’re frozen, unable to react, to move as he releases your hair to draw his knuckle over the curve of your cheek. It’s deceptively soft, almost reverent. “How long’s it been, princess? Two years? Three?”

You don’t have anywhere else to go but back, tripping over the threshold and into the hotel room. Peter follows, stepping gracefully into the room. He wrinkles his nose as he takes in your threadbare surroundings,  his lips pressing into a grim line. Peter kicks at your bags, forgotten on the floor as you’d scrambled away from him.

He takes a step towards you, and you go for the folding knife hidden in your jacket. Peter’s expression doesn’t shift at all, except perhaps to go a bit softer, like the sight of your fear and desperate defense is somehow endearing. You brandish it anyway, holding it like the self-defense teacher in Arizona taught you.

“S-stay back,” you croak, your throat tightening as he disregards your warning with another step. “Peter stop!”

“Or what, princess?” He asks, and his voice sounds… amused. “What? You’ll stab me? You can’t hurt me anymore.” Peter looks down at his own hands, flexing them as if becoming familiar with their function. “Nothing can hurt me anymore.”

Peter stands between you and the door, his brown eyes going molten gold as he stares at you. Your fingers tremble around the handle of your knife.

“You don’t have to do this.” You hate that it comes out as a plea, desperate and weak. “This doesn’t have to be what happens here, Peter—”

“You know what happens now, seer.” It’s Peter’s voice—but not, at the same time. “Look,” he says mockingly. “Tell me what you see.” You don’t want to, not with him there, but you can’t help it. You expect to see possibilities bloom before you like flowers in an open field, but instead, there is only one.

You see yourself. Behind you sprawls a vast estate, overlooking the sea. You blink, and suddenly you are beside yourself, only literally, close enough to feel your own breath on your face. You are swathed in soft, white fabric—Peter always did love you in white—and your belly curves outward through the layers of your dress, easy to see. And at your neck, a wide, shimmering gold necklace emblazoned with the sun. No, not a necklace.

A collar.

Peter’s hand on your chin is what brings you back, his thumb wiping gently at the tears streaming down your cheeks. His smile is wide, manic, as he pries the knife from your trembling fingers before your brain forgets to close them around the handle.

“No!” You gasp, pushing at his hands as you gulp down a lungful of air.  It’s like the scene from your second sight is tattooed on the insides of your eyelids, revealing itself again and again. You can almost feel the heavy gold around your throat, the sun sigil too warm against your skin—

“No, no, no-!” You shriek and struggle in his arms, your eyes wide and fearful. Peter bears it patiently, allowing you to beat at his chest with open palms and then closed fists as your gasps turn to ragged sobs. For all your fight,  Peter only wraps his arms around you tighter.

“Get off, get off me! Fuck you!” You rake one hand down his face, and he doesn’t flinch as you scratch jagged, bloody lines down his cheek. They close up almost as soon as you do it, but you feel satisfaction when he frowns.

“I know you’re upset, princess. You’ve been running so long,” he croons, but you shake your head, still struggling in his iron grip as Peter presses you against the wall. His lips drag along your cheek, and you feel them curve against your skin. He’s pleased. Even as his skin flakes away under your fingernails, he doesn’t care.

You scream.

Long, and loud, and finally, finally Peter stops moving. Your head bangs against the wall as you lean back, staring up at the ceiling as you pant.

“Are you done with the hysterics?” Peter asks, cocking his head. You’re not sure if he means to be cruel, or if it’s just a byproduct of the thing squatting in his skin, but it doesn’t matter because it cuts all the same.

“What are you going to do to me?” You ask, still not looking at him, not bothering to respond to his barb. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.

“I’m going to give you everything you ever wanted.”

Somehow, it’s the worst thing he could have said.

Peter grasps your chin gently between his thumb and forefinger, forcing you to look him in the eye as he begins inching his hand under the hem of your shirt. This too is familiar—maybe you saw it, maybe you dreamt it, but it doesn’t matter now that Peter—Apollo—is sliding his hand up your shirt, under your bra—

“No one is coming, princess. It’s just me,” he undoes the clasps deftly, “and you.” Peter’s thigh begins to slide up between your own, and you push uselessly at him. He clucks his tongue.

“Princess, this is the deal you made. Sorry you’re sore about it—oooh,” his admonishment becomes a sharp intake of breath as he tugs the collar of your shirt down hard enough to tear it, exposing your breasts to his hungry gaze.

“You’re so pretty, baby.” He says, his words punctuated by the sound of ripping fabric.

“Fuck you,” you spit. “I’m not her. I didn’t make a deal!” You hiss. You try to go for his face again, but Peter neatly pins your arms above your head. “Peter, Peter please—”

“You are, though,” he says softly, dropping a kiss on the tip of your nose. “You’re her. She’s you. In here,” he shifts your wrists to one and, anchoring them as he drops a finger to the valley between your breasts. Peter brushes the halves of your shirt aside. “I know you know, princess,” he says patiently. “I know you feel it. How heavy your soul is, how many lifetimes its had.” You hate the pitying way he clucks his tongue, the way your stomach tightens with anger and fear because he’s right. You’re heavier than lead—and you hate that he knows it.

“Aren’t you ready to rest?”

You can practically feel it, the collar around your neck. Peter twists your nipple, and when you gasp, he presses his mouth to yours.  He’s warm, like sun filtering down onto your skin. Peter tastes of summer rain as his tongue sweeps over your own. He groans into your mouth, and there’s a sick, terrible tightness that grows in your stomach at the sound.

You’ve never had time for relationships, your lifestyle hasn’t been particularly conducive to romance. Beyond a couple of clumsy, regrettable hookups in bars, your own hands are the only ones to have brought you any pleasure. You don’t like the way your cunt pulses and aches as Peter’s thigh presses into you, the way heat travels like white lightning down your spine when he twists your nipples between his fingertips.

“I hate you,” you grit out against his mouth.  You don’t know why tears gather in your eyes as you say it. “I hate you!”

Peter hums. “I know, princess.” His tongue is soft on the skin of your throat, and when you swallow, he grins again. “But you won’t, always.”

There’s nowhere for you to go, stuck between Peter’s hard chest and the wall. It feels like he wants to touch you forever, caressing your face, pressing his fingers into your hips, cupping your breasts through the torn fabric of your shirt. His questing fingers dip into your panties, moaning softly against your skin when he finds you wet.

“See?” He says with a chuckle. “I think you’re starting to like me a little already.” You can’t help but feel disgusted and betrayed by your body as the little circular motions of his fingertip around your clit coax more wetness from you. You whimper, trying and failing to close your thighs around his hand.

Peter leans away from you, finally releasing your wrists from their position above your head so that he can cup your chin, forcing you to look at him as his other hand works steadily between your thighs. His sweet, chocolate brown eyes are both soft and warm like honey, and yet brilliant and burning suns in his eye sockets, rivulets of gold running down his cheeks as his smile widens.

You’re not sure which is real as your cunt clenches around the invading length of his fingers. It’s not supposed to send heat rushing through you when Peter’s teeth drag down the line of your throat, humming with pleasure as more wetness drips down his wrist, smearing against your inner thighs.

“You’re so tight, princess,” he laughs softly against your skin. The breaths that escape your throat are ragged and hard even to your own ear, each punctuated by the slick, wet noise of him stretching you open around his knuckles. “If I didn’t know you’d already let someone else have was rightfully mine, I’d think no one had fucked you before.”

Peter pulls his fingers from you, holding them in front of your face so that you can see how wet they are before he sucks them between his lips.

“Tastes sweet, too.” His weight lifts from you, and you watch as Peter takes a single step back. “Take it off. All of it.”

“Peter—”

He grabs for you then, patience worn thin at last. You slap at his hands, pushing at them unsuccessfully as Peter wrestles you to his chest, holding you as easily as he would a willful child. He tosses you to the bed, and the air leaves your lungs in a hoarse shout as your back meets the firm mattress. Peter tears your leggings down your thighs, threads snapping and tearing in his grip, and tosses them away, forgotten. Your head is caged between his hands, and there is no place else to look but at him.

“Still running, huh, princess?” His voice is cold as he stares down at you. You don’t know how eyes so bright could be so dark. So empty. “Maybe we should make it so you can’t. I think that would be best for everyone.” You know he isn’t giving you a choice, and your face cracks with horror at his words.

“Peter, please.”

He nudges your thighs apart with his own, the fabric of his jeans scraping against your skin as he slots his hips down against yours. Peter reaches between you, and your eyes widen at the sound of his zipper.

“What are you so afraid of, princess?” He asks, and you swallow a surprised  moan as the hot, heavy length of his cock presses against your slick folds. Peter hisses with pleasure, his head lolling back while he slowly rolls his hips into yours. His chin drops to his chest as Peter fixes you with a knowing look. “That you might like it?”

His cock bumps against your clit with every pass, and you whine, writhing underneath him. You hate that it feels good—better than good, better than your own hand ever has. There is something molten and hot in your veins, and Peter put it there—infected you with the hot pleasure in your belly. He draws back, only to drive forward sharply. His cock pushes against the tightness of your entrance for a moment, and then slides neatly inside.

It punches the air from your lungs in a ragged cry, the burning stretch of his cock inside you driving you to tangle your fingers in the sheets as you gape up at him, wide eyed. You’re so full, every bit of extra space inside of you is full up of Peter, and he groans, drawing out only to sink back in even deeper. Tears leak from the corners of your eyes as Peter splits you apart, his cock throbbing.

“That’s it,” he praises you, fingers digging into your left hip as he lays into your swollen, aching cunt. “See, princess your mouth can lie,” Peter pulls out slowly, glorying in the slick noise of his exit. “But this sweet fucking pussy?” You let out a garbled moan as he thrusts back into you with abandon. “She can’t.”

Every thrust jars you, leaves you raw and panting under the onslaught. Peter’s hands are everywhere, pinching and twisting your nipples, holding your hips still as he rocks into you, his cock pushing up against your cervix. You want to resist it, the sharp pleasure building at your core, but every thought is eaten by it, eroded until it’s all you can focus on.

“Feels like you need this,” Peter pants, hooking his arms underneath your thighs as he presses them to your chest. “Needed me.” You keen as his cock punches into you, dragging along your swollen, sensitive walls. You shake your head defiantly, and Peter’s fingers press into the meat of your thighs hard enough to bruise.

“I—don’t—need—you,” you grit out through his thrusts. Peter’s face darkens, but he doesn’t stop. If anything, he seems to dig into you deeper, and the pleasure begins bordering on pain.

“It isn’t nice to lie, princess,” Peter says lowly. “I can feel you squeezing me like your life depends on it.” You know he’s right, you can already feel the pleasure building in your blood, tension tightening in your belly. Peter slides a hand between you, his fingers plucking at your clit as you whine.

“N-no-fuck, I—” You try to deny it, but the words devolve into babble. You’re falling, crumbling under his assault as your cunt clenches tightly around him. Pleasure, sickly sweet and unwelcome floods through you, curdling your resistance as you drown in it.

It feels good to let go.

Peter’s hips still against you and he groans low, his head dropping to his chest as his fingers squeeze your hips.

“Don’t worry, princess,” his breath washes over your cheeks as his hand comes to rest on the swell of your belly. “I think the baby will look good on you.”

Hello friends! I no longer maintain a taglist, so please follow @box-of-bones-library​​ for updates and new work, thank you!

Likes and comments are amazing, but reblogs are golden! Please consider sharing my work so that others can see it too!

peace | p.p.

word count: 4.3k

warnings: major nwh spoilers!!, symptoms of depression, slight angst, me wanting someone (peter) to give me a charm bracelet, taylor swift references

summary: peter reunites with you and tries to get you to remember him after all that happens

Life after Dr. Strange’s spell was rough for Peter, to say the least. Although he still fortunately had his birth certificate and driver's license, it was hard to find a job or a place to live when you had no credit and no G.E.D. So he resorted to being a freelance photographer at the Daily Bugle to pay the bills, staging pictures of him as Spider-Man, and getting the only clear pictures of Spider-Man to be found for any paper. Peter was also living in a crappy small apartment in the bad part of town with the little money he made. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

Peter also had to deal with the fact that he literally had no one in his life. It was difficult for him to adapt to being alone, he often found himself turning to tell a stupid joke to you, point out a good person in crisis for MJ to draw, or even a take out place for May to try, and find himself completely alone.

Peter was used to his constant sadness that came with the loneliness by now too. The first couple nights he cried himself to sleep, all of the grief and guilt about his aunt and the loneliness being too hard to deal with. All of the late nights alone with his thoughts made his mind go to dark places. Thinking about how he was always alone in his life. People kept leaving him; his parents, Ben, Tony, May, his friends, you. Was Peter just meant to be alone? Did he deserve to be alone?

Peter shook his head, snapping out of his train of thought. It was probably best not to go down that road again. He rubbed his eyes, closing his G.E.D. prep book. This was depressing. His life was depressing. Peter needed to do something. He needed some fresh air.

He put his jacket on, making sure to have his web shooter in his pocket just in case. This neighborhood was so sketchy. And mindlessly, Peter walked out of his building, not even realizing where his feet were leading him until he found himself right outside the coffee shop that his friends regularly hung out at. Holy Grounds. You all would spend countless hours doing homework and joking around there until MJ had to close the store.

It was where you and Peter had your first date when you were awkward seventh graders being supervised by his Aunt May and Uncle Ben in the back corner. It was where you two had your first kiss. It was where Peter first met Ned in freshman year after he accidentally spilled coffee on Ned. It was where Harry decided to throw an impromptu New Year’s party that ended in Peter reluctantly kissing Harry at midnight when Harry complained he had no one to kiss. It was where the six of you first hung out all together besides school for the first time.

It was the home of so many of Peter’s memories.

As he looked through the windows, Peter saw your group sitting at the counter. MJ was leaning on the counter, probably complaining about the customers while Gwen was listening and also likely coming up with new songs for her band “The Mary Janes” in the back of her mind. Harry was sipping something out of one of the cafe mugs, while Ned was watching and laughing when Harry spit it back out almost immediately.

And you. You, Peter noticed you were sitting on the end closest to the door next to Harry, quietly, fidgeting with your rings and a bracelet, an anxious habit you had. As he looked closer, Peter noticed that it was the charm bracelet he got you for your birthday, that had charms of your favorite things and memories you had made since you’ve been friends.

Peter couldn’t help but wonder if Peter Parker wasn’t totally forgotten in your mind.

That thought quickly dissipated as he watched you. He couldn’t describe the look on your face. You looked something between sad and confused as you twisted it between your fingers, not paying attention to your friends around you.

Peter hadn’t planned to see his friends and give them his speech until two more weeks, just enough time that he would be settled into his new life, and so he would have enough time to craft his speech to make him not sound like a lunatic. But seeing you like that made Peter rashly decide to go in and introduce himself.

He might not be able to make you remember him, but he could be your friend again.

He walked into the store, hands in his pockets, messing with the notecards that contained his speech. Peter kept them in his jacket just in case something caused his plan to change. But the text he had memorized was ignored as you looked at Peter as he walked into Holy Grounds, looking like you recognized him but couldn’t quite figure out from where. You narrowed your eyes, but shook your head and took a drink of your latte.

Doubt treaded Peter’s mind. Would this even work? A few simple sentences was supposed to be enough to counteract a spell made by one of the multiverse’s most powerful wizards?

He took a deep breath, like May taught him to do when his thoughts got overwhelming. Okay, even if he couldn’t get you to remember him, he could at least try to rebuild what you once had. You were best friends and then a couple for years, if it could happen once it could happen again. You could make new memories and have a new love.

Yeah, Peter thought. Either of those could work.

Peter took a leap of faith and stepped closer to you. “Hi, I’m Peter Parker.”

You smiled at him, nose scrunching slightly. “Hi Peter Parker,” you said. “They don’t put your names on the cups here.” You paused, stifling a laugh. “And I don’t work here.”

“Oh I know,” Peter said. “Actually, I didn’t know they didn’t put names on the cups, but I did know you didn’t work here, which now that I think about it sounds kind of creepy because you don’t know me, but that’s not the point, or even why I introduced myself.” Peter took a deep breath and started talking at a more normal speed. “Sorry, I ramble sometimes.”

You smiled softly. “You don’t have to apologize for talking. What were you gonna say?”

Peter couldn’t help but smile too. God, he missed you so much. “I was saying that, uh, I introduced myself to you because I wanted you to know my name.”

Peter heard MJ snort and whisper something to Gwen, who practically cackled. Peter could only assume it was some sort of insult. You hit MJ slightly with your hand across the counter, giving her a ‘knock it off’ look. It was almost like old times.

You turned back over to Peter, smile back on your face. “Ignore her, she's mean to everyone.”

“It’s okay. Anyways I was wondering if I could maybe talk to you?” At that, Peter noticed all of his friends looking towards the two of you. He stiffened up at all the eyes.

You bit your lip, fiddling with the bracelet again. “Um, I think my friends might kill me, or you, if I leave now.” Peter sighed, but at the sight of his fallen face, you quickly followed up with, “But I should be free at 4, if that works?”

Peter nodded, vigorously, grin back on his face. “Yeah, that’s good, yeah. Meet you here?”

You nodded. “Sounds good. See you then.” Peter nodded too as you both kept eye contact.

Harry leaned his head on your shoulder, also looking at Peter. He waved slightly at him. “Bye Peter Parker.”

Peter chuckled slightly. “Bye,” he said, feeling hopeful for the first time in a while as he walked out.

As Peter walked out of the cafe, you heard your friends snickering at him. “He was so dorky,” MJ chuckled. “‘I’m Peter Parker.’ What was that?”

“Knock it off you guys,” you said, in a firm tone. “He was sweet, and trying. Besides, there's something,” you paused, messing with the web charm on your bracelet, trying to find the right word, “familiar about him.”

“Maybe that’s why he wanted to talk to you,” Gwen suggested. “He would’ve had to know you if he came in here, just talked to you, and didn’t order coffee in a coffee shop.”

“Or he’s just a perv who wants to take advantage of you,” Harry said casually, shrugging his shoulders.

“Aw, bub,” you smiled, putting your arm around him. “Thank you for looking out for me Har, but I think if he was actually a perv, he wouldn’t have made plans to meet me at a public place, in front of my friends.”

“Perv or not,” Ned remarked, putting his hands up, “Y/N’s right. That dude looks really familiar.”

“I think so too,” Gwen said. “Maybe he goes to Midtown. Or maybe he went to your middle school and wanted to catch up?”

You shook your head. “I don’t think that’s it.” You sighed. “I don’t know. It’s just, recently I’ve felt like there’s something missing in me, you know? Like I have trouble remembering things, and I feel like there’s a hole in my chest, like I’m grieving but I don’t know why. But when he came in and started talking, that hole and that feeling went away. I felt more whole than I have in weeks, for whatever reason.” You stopped, feeling the pitiful glances of your friends. “I don’t know, maybe I’m just being crazy.”

“You’re not crazy,” MJ said, her voice as soft as you’ve ever heard it. She put her hand on your shoulder. “Lately we’ve all kind of had that problem, even though you more than most.” She gestured to the rest of your friends and they nodded too, their faces filled with sympathy. “I know my memory’s been fuzzy and confusing ever since that weird incident with Spider-Man and the Statue of Liberty.” She snorted. “Who knows, maybe that Peter Parker is Spider-Man and made a magician erase him from our memory to protect the world from collapsing in on itself?” Everyone laughed, a little somberly.

“Thanks M, you guys,” you said. “However unlikely that scenario is, I just feel like if I talk to Peter, maybe things will make some sense again.”

“We’re here for you,” Harry nudged. “And if it turns out that he is a perv, just call me and say the word ‘pineapple’.” He whispered the word, as if Peter was still outside, and could hear him.

You grinned, and gave Harry a side hug. “Will do Harry.”

You loved your friends, you really did, and they were really supportive through whatever had happened and whatever was wrong with you, but you couldn’t help but wonder if Peter Parker could help solve your problems.

Exactly at four, you walked up to Peter, who was already at the coffee shop. He was dressed in a blue sweater over a plaid flannel with some nice jeans. You were wearing Peter’s old Midtown sweatshirt, and he knew it was his and not yours because it was much bigger than yours, going down practically to your knees. It made him smile, just like old times.

“Hi,” he said, waving slightly, before cringing at the awkwardness of it.

“Hi,” you replied. “Do you wanna walk around? Or go somewhere?”

“Do you wanna walk down Cornelia Street?” Peter asked. He knew you loved the Taylor Swift song, and ever since you saw the street in real life, you always wanted to live there. You always walked down there together when it was warm enough, making unrealistic plans for the future. “They have really--”

“Awesome and beautiful apartments that would make a great place to live,” you finished, the words coming out of your mouth before you could even process them.

“Yeah,” Peter said, breathlessly. He wanted to jump up and down at the fact there was still some trace of him within your memory after all. “You took the words right out of my mouth.”

You walked side by side next to Peter in silence for a few minutes as you walked the route to Cornelia Street. “I like your bracelet,” Peter said. “All of the charms are really cool.”

“Thanks,” you said, taking the lightsaber charm in your left hand. “I really like it.”

“Where’d you get?” He asked, hoping to partially jog your memory. “It looks custom.”

You bit your lip and avoided eye contact. “Um, I’m actually not sure.”

“Oh,” Peter replied, trying to hide his disappointment. “Well it’s still cool.”

“Yeah, I think the charms each have a meaning, but my memory’s been really weird lately and I can’t remember what they are,” you said.

Peter knew exactly what the meanings were. A lightsaber for the first movie you ever watched together when you were eight being “A New Hope”. A camera for how Peter always loved to take photo shoots of you ever since he got his first camera. A boombox for how you both loved to watch cheesy 90s rom-coms together. A trident for your Greek mythology-Percy Jackson phase in sixth grade.

Peter could go on. He spent hours looking through jewelry stores trying to find specific ones to fit your memories together, starting with a small web charm (for Spider-Man, obviously), and buying another couple each holiday. You told him it was probably the best and most thoughtful gift you had ever gotten.

He wanted to grab you by the shoulders and shout the meanings and the memories he had gotten those charms for, making it the thing that made you remember everything, and then kiss you to make up for all the lost time. But instead Peter simply replied, “My memory’s been weird too.”

You turned your head to face him as you kept walking. “Really? I thought I was crazy, I feel like it’s only me and my friends who’ve felt like it.”

He shook his head. “No, yeah, I’ve been having gaps ever since that weird thing with the crack in the sky and the Statue of Liberty.”

“Me too!” You exclaimed. “And the strangest things keep happening to me, like, I feel urges to send a text to someone, and make sure they’re okay, but I have no idea who. Or I want to open my window to let someone in, even though my apartment is on the fourth floor, and no one could make it up there since we don’t have a fire escape. I even find clothes in my closet that I know aren’t mine, but I don’t know whose they are.” You turned to Peter, who was nodding his head, genuinely interested. “And sometimes I feel this physical pain in my chest, this overflow of emotions I don’t understand, like I’m supposed to be grieving something or someone, but I don’t know who. Like I’m missing something important inside of me.” You paused, worried that Peter would run at this strangeness. “Does that make sense?”

“Yeah,” Peter said softly. “It does.”

You nodded, taking a deep breath before you continued. “And I know this probably sounds crazy, cause I know we only met a few hours ago, but you look so familiar to me. In a way that I can’t even describe. It’s like I’ve known you forever. And you make that pain in my chest and my head want to disappear. It doesn’t make any sense.”

What you were telling him astounded Peter. He didn’t imagine in a million years that this would’ve happened. His absence was actually causing you physical pain. It was like your mind wanted to continue your life as if Peter was still in it, even though you didn’t know who he was. Peter felt he owed it to you to tell you the truth after all he heard. And even if he hadn’t crafted the perfect ‘not sound insane’ speech, Peter thought you could believe him.

Right as you finished, you turned the corner onto Cornelia Street. The sun was setting, and the orange-pink skies over the luxurious apartments made it look breathtaking.

In a rush of adrenaline, Peter intertwined your fingers together, and led you over to a bench and sat down, you next to him.

He took a deep breath. “Do you remember that flash in the sky that happened a couple weeks ago, near the Statue of Liberty?” You nodded, eyes squinted a little in confusion. “That was a spell that a wizard named Dr. Strange cast that ripped a hole in the multiverse, well technically the second one fixed the hole in the multiverse, the first one made the hole.”

You blinked a couple of times, trying to make sure you heard him right. “What?”

“I know it sounds crazy, but it’s true,” Peter insisted, grabbing your hands. “The second spell he cast made everyone forget me. Because it was the only way to fix everything. You were there. You cried and begged me not to do it. You said you didn’t want to forget.”

You looked at the ground, mouth slightly agape. “Why didn’t I want to forget you? We don’t know each other,” your voice sounded reluctantly incredulous, like you didn’t want to believe him. “What would I have to forget?”

Peter moved his head lower, so you would look at him. “Me. Us. Before all of this crazy stuff happened we were in love, and before that we were best friends since we were kids.” You looked up Peter, unreadable expression.

“Really?” You whispered, slight pain in your voice. “You’re really telling the truth?”

“Yeah,” Peter replied. “I promise I am.”

“You’re Peter Parker,” you said, more to yourself than to him. “And the spell made me forget you?”

“Yeah,” he said again softly. “That pain in your chest, the gaps in your memory, the part of you that you feel is missing?” You nodded at his pause. “That’s me.”

“I believe you,” you said. “As crazy as it sounds, despite the fact that I probably shouldn't, I believe you.” Peter smiled, laughing a little.

“Do you think if you kissed me, all of my memories come back in a rush montage like in the movies with amnesiacs?” You asked, rubbing the back of your neck.

Peter shrugged. “I think it’s worth a shot.”

Peter took your face in his hand and you both looked into each other's eyes for a few seconds, sharing a moment of silent healing for both of you. You leaned in, and he pulled you in, feeling the infamous ‘spark’ as your lips connected. You stayed that way for a second, and when you pulled away to breath, you searched your memory, trying to remember anything, any memory of Peter.

Nothing.

“Did it work?” He asked eagerly. “Do you remember?”

“No.” You shook your head sadly, but a second after you did, you grabbed Peter’s wrist, and pulled a bracelet from underneath his sleeve before you even realized what you were doing. It was a red and blue beaded bracelet, like the kind of plastic ones you gave out to all your friends as a kid. Still acting on instinct, you pressed the blue bead right before the knot that held it together.

A red projection of the Spider-Man mask appeared before the both of you on the bench. Peter had worn the bracelet ever since you gave it to him in fifth grade, and added the projection to it after he found no actual use to it in his Stark suit, but still wanted to keep it nonetheless. You always liked to mess with the bracelet and put up the projection when you were bored.

You both gasped, looking at each other in awe.

“How did you know how to do that?”

You shrugged, adrenaline rushing through your veins. “Muscle memory, I think.”

“Maybe if we kiss again, you’ll remember something else?” Peter suggested. “Like one kiss equals one memory?”

You couldn’t help but laugh, but pulled him in and kissed him once again, feeling nothing but pure bliss.

When you pulled away, you picked up your wrist to look at your charm bracelet on instinct. “You gave me this,” you said, eyes wide. “You gave me this for my birthday.”

“Yeah,” Peter nodded enthusiastically. “I did.”

“And-and this charm,” you picked up the black dahlia charm. “You got it because you tried to buy me a necklace with one in Venice but it broke because you were fighting the dude with the fishbowl head, so you got the charm instead!”

“That’s exactly what happened!” Peter exclaimed.

“Oh my god, I remember what all of these mean,” you said, taking a bunch of them in your hand. “The Empire State Building is for both me being obsessed with it in second grade and you swung me up there the first time you took me swinging. The-The fridge is for that time at three AM when we wanted to dance, but your living room needed new light bulbs, so we just kept the refrigerator door open as a light and played ‘Home’ by Bruno Major on a loop.”

“Yes. Yes. Yes,” Peter repeated, unable to believe this was happening. Unable to believe that you remembered. “We almost melted all of May’s coffee ice cream and she was so mad.”

“But not as mad as that one time when we were kids and decided it would be a good idea to give each other Sharpie tattoos,” you said, breathless as the words rushed out of your mouth. “I still have part of the Black Widow hourglass on my ankle.” You laughed, pulling your legging up to show him. “That’s what that was!”

“Yeah,” Peter said, pulling up his right sleeve. “And I still have the face of the Iron Man mask!”

You gasped again, getting up quickly and confirming your suspicions. Your initials and Peter’s initials were carved in a heart on the back of the wood(ish) bench. “We carved our initials into this bench. So when we have money and can afford to rent a place on this street we could just sit here and talk.”

“Exactly,” Peter said faintly. “Exactly.” You knocked your foreheads together, both just enjoying being together.

“I don’t remember everything,” you murmured. “Some things, but not all of them.”

“That’s okay, I’m just glad you remember anything,” he replied. “I can tell you about things you don’t remember and we can make new memories too.”

“That sounds good.” You shifted, leaning your head on Peter’s shoulder. “Can you tell me some now?”

“Sure,” Peter said, putting his head half on top of yours. “On Valentine’s day, sophomore year, the first Valentine’s day after we started dating, I put chocolates in your locker, and got you the earbuds charm for your bracelet--”

“Because we liked to share earbuds and make each other playlists,” you finished.

Peter smiled. “Yeah. And you waited until after school to give me your present. We decided to eat at Delmar’s in fancy clothes, to seem like adults, and after we were finished eating, you pulled out this gallon sized bag full of candy hearts, and they were personalized with funny messages and pick up lines, like ‘are you copper and tellurium? because you’re CuTe’ and ‘you must be the force because Yoda only one for me’” Peter chuckled. “You also got me a new sweater, but the fact that you took the time to write like fifty different pick up lines for me really warmed my heart and made it my favorite gift.”

You giggled. “That definitely sounds like something I would do. You deserve to have a billion pick up lines.”

You sat there for a moment, enjoying the peaceful noise of New York, enjoying the comfort of having each other there for them.

“Peter?” You asked, not moving from the position you were in.

“Yeah?”

You bit your lip, deciding to tell him what you were thinking. “Do you think we’ll be able to give each other the peace we’re looking for?”

Peter turned his head towards you at that. “What do you mean?”

You shrugged. “I know that we’ve found each other somehow, despite a freaking memory erasing spell, and that’s amazing, and I love that, and I’m pretty sure I love you, but,” you sighed. “We’re both kind of looking for a peace within the other that might not be satisfiable.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s just that you’re looking for me so you can have a piece of your old life back, and I was looking to fill in my memory and problems, a peace of sorts, you know? I know it sounds stupid and that I’m overthinking this, but what if we can’t give each other that thing we’re looking for? What if we try to seek that feeling instead of love?” Your voice cracked as you finished. “What if I can’t give you peace?”

“Hey,” Peter said delicately, putting his hands on your shoulders. “I don’t want peace. I realized a long time ago that my life was never gonna be peaceful. I was looking for you because I love you. Not because I wanted peace. All I want is you, and the love we have. You matter so much to me, and I’m not losing you again. Especially over something as stupid as peace.” He put your foreheads together again. “I love you.”

Silent tears ran down your face as you smiled. How could you have forgotten this person you loved so much? A person who made you feel so happy and so loved. “I love you too.”

“We might not be able to give each other peace,” Peter said. “But I know that we can make each other pretty damn happy.”

if you’re too shy (let me know) (pp)

inspired by this euphoria scene. peter helps his longtime crush take nudes that are meant for someone else. angst, tension, thirdwheel!peter. [0.9k]

from fighting back against his long term bully, eugene ‘flash’ thompson, to taking down giant lizards, this was probably the most life threatening, hazardous situation peter has ever gotten himself into. he should honestly be dead by now considering how long he’s been holding his breath in for.

if you’re too shy (let me know) by the 1975 plays in the background while he makes this assumption, soothingly and absently, as if it’s mocking peter. he almost forgets his current position. almost. peter’s on his knees in front of your bed, watching, eyes glazed over, as you reposition yourself above him.

“i feel like that’s good.” you mumble, wrapping your hand around his own that was currently holding your phone at an upward angle. “does it look real? does it look like i’m taking it?” you smiled, eyes wide and still directed at the phone camera.

peter smiles back for a moment before realising that your smile, tight, with your pearly whites exposed, wasn’t for him. no, these were for someone peter didn’t even know the name of, he tries to remember if he even bothered asking.

“maybe try to loosen up a bit, but straighten up your posture, still.” peter tries to smirk, right corner of his lip forcibly pulled up into a desperate attempt at hiding what he truly felt. what he didn’t even know he felt.

there’s something about your stare that makes peter nervous and makes him say things that he doesn’t mean. like just now— you looked perfect and the mystery man on your phone would be lucky enough to even receive one of these photos in the first place.

peter tenses at the thought, god i sound like a simp. serves you right for agreeing to do this, he thinks.

“are you okay? your hand is like— really warm.” your eyes meet his. “no- yeah, yeah, yeah. that’s good. um, maybe tilt your head down a bit.” peter suggested, his other hand that wasn’t under yours motioning at his own chin.

you hummed, muttering a “good call, that angle probably wasn’t doing it for me.” while leaning your head down a bit, eyes meeting the phone lense once again.

peter wanted to say something along the lines of ‘no angle could possibly do that.’ or ‘every angle does it for you.’ but decided against it, considering the fact that you were probably already uncomfortable.

“make me look good.” you mumbled, biting your lips subtlety for the camera. “always.” peter scoffs jokingly, desperately trying to loosen up in his awkward position.

you were in your nicest bra, a baby pink victoria secret one that you contemplated buying for a while. the dainty undergarment had a small heart shaped golden charm tied into it that produced a soft and dreamy glare in front of the camera.

meeting your own eyes in your vanity mirror, the unease finally caught up to you. “this is a really bad angle for me.” “no it isn’t, shut up.” peter murmurs back but his eyes betray his unbothered façade, quickly lifting up to yours, ready to stop the second you get uncomfortable. “how do i turn on grids on this?” peter jokes, hoping to get to see your pretty smile again.

he gets what he wants because a second later you bark out a laugh. “grids? peter this isn’t vogue.” you grin, and the nerdy joke, peter decides, was 100% worth it when he looks up and realises that your gaze is on him.

it takes a moment for him to snakily retort back.

“okay, excuse me for not making this another one of your blurry, horizontal snapchats where you can barley see anything. i’m an artist, you know. i have to hold myself up to a standard. even if they are your nudes.” peter hopes that the lighthearted joke will throw you off on how rigid he was being, and if you hadn’t been throwing your head back laughing at his sarcasm, you would’ve noticed the deep flush in his cheeks.

“you’re such a dork.” you jabbed, lifting the corners of your lips while doing so. “the baby my neighbour paid me to shoot was a better model than you.” he retorts back. and for a while, it’s intimate, the situation. it’s almost something romantic, and peter thinks it’s worth being the third wheel to you and the mystery man on your phone if it means you’re going to smile and laugh at every one of his jokes and looks.

“do you want a couple with portrait mode on?” he jokes, for what he presumes is the forth time. god, parker, give it a rest, he thinks. finally lowering your phone and exiting the camera app. his repetition doesn’t stop you from giggling. “fuck off.”

he hands your phone to you and you move to lay on your stomach, while you scroll through the photos. “wait this one actually looks like i took it.” you look up at peter, grinning. “right?” he’s still on the floor, gaze dreamy, when he replies; “yeah.”

“these are amazing. thanks, pete.” you pick out your favourite one and send it to the mystery man before getting up to put your shirt back on, feeling peter’s eyes on you the whole time.

“are you checking me out?” you laugh, pulling your shirt over your head. the tension between you two materialising as heat in your cheeks.

peter scoffs, “you wish.” thanking god that your shirt was over your head to miss the fact that his eyes were momentarily bulging out of his head.

peter could get used to this, to you, and the sense of intimacy that was involved in being around you.

ding!

“peter, he replied!”

Slay

i’ll keep your brittle heart warm.

synopsis : peter was always on your mind, you were always on his, perhaps that would make him a little bit of a distraction.

pairing : frat!peter parker x reader

wc : 1k

warnings : FLUFF FLUFF FLUFFF, uhmmm soft making out !!! other than that… i guess peter being an absolute idiot (a down bad idiot), but even if this is cliché as hell, it’s super cute and fluffy :)

‎‎ masterlist | request | navigation

a/n : hi ! sorry the fic is a little late this week, but frat!peter has been on my mind constantly shehhsjsns <3 he’s leaning more towards the peter more than the frat butttt i wanted him to be a little softer for this one :) big big thank you to @strawberrystarcake for the help on the editing, and @toms-gf for giving me the idea (this one is for u hehe)

“parker, you joining us?” the familiar voice echoes from the other side of the room. peter winces, not at all because he was opposed to the idea, but he’d made plans with you.

“uh- i’ll catch up later? i have somewhere to be.” the boys, all spread out in various positions on the couch, smirked and ‘ooo’ed at the implications of that.

liam speaks first. “right, got plans with your girl?” peter nods.

“ooh, you’re so down bad, parker, it’s not even a joke anymore.” james, another one of his friends, gives him a soft shove.

maybe he was right.

peter had never planned for your arrangement to escalate into anything further than a fling, and though he had never been an expert when it came to matters of the heart, he knew that he was too far gone.

it wasn’t uncommon for him to find himself smiling at the thought of you. he was constantly lost in thought, and sometimes, it became difficult to snap him out of his dream-like state.

even when his mind wasn’t completely occupied by the thought of you, he found that you had been living rent free in a certain corner of his mind. he’d catch himself wondering about you or associating little things around him with you. 

he wasn’t all too familiar with this feeling, but it wasn’t unpleasant, just confusing to navigate.

he’s never felt this way before. his heart never fluttered at a subtle touch, he never felt like he was melting whenever someone walked into the room, he never felt his heartbeat race at mere eye contact.

but with you? you had him feeling everything all at once.

but, of course, he hasn’t told you this, any of this. but he had a gut feeling that you might feel the same way, and that was enough for him to allow himself to fall deeper, as irrational as it may be.

it was no longer ‘maybe he was right’, and peter knew. to put it simply, he was right.

“better get going, you don’t want your girl waiting on you,” trent blurts, interrupting peter’s train of thought.

“right. i’ll see you guys later?” peter says, the boys nod and wave him goodbye as he walks out the door.

“oh, love.” liam sighs dreamily as the rest of the boys snicker.

as soon as peter enters the library, he’s met with a sense of comforting familiarity. before anything had begun happening between the both of you, you two had spent a lot of your time in the halls of this library. whether it were nights filled with endless work, or simply wandering around in attempt to find books you could read together.

he knew exactly where to find you: a certain corner of the library that you claimed to be ‘warmer and cozier’ than anywhere else.

he spots you browsing the history section, your face scrunched up, clearly focused. he sees all your things, messily laid on top of a wooden table, the one you always use.

he smiles to himself before sneaking behind the bookshelf you were browsing, and just as you pull a book from the shelf, you catch a glint of brown eyes from the other side. you stay silent for a moment, before smiling at one another.

then you shove the book between you two, and the next thing peter hears are quick footsteps.

peter’s utterly confused, he didn’t notice the look of mischief written all over his face.

“baby?” he whisper shouts, scrambling around the area before catching a glimpse of your figure, running from one shelf to another.

then it hits him, you were messing with him.

his look of mischief matches yours once he realizes, he follows quickly behind you, and before you know it, you’re up against a bookshelf, inches away from peter.

“hi.” you send him a cheeky grin, one that he sends right back to you.

“you’re going to drive me crazy.” his eyes gaze softly at yours, before trailing down to your lips.

“i know.” you quip, before moving as fast as you can to try and run away once more.

“ab-up-up.” he tuts, catching you once more. his lips brush softly over yours, lingering for a moment, before he presses his lips against yours. one hand finds its way to your waist, he uses it to pull you closer towards him.

but you find yourself shoving him aside, “peter! this is why i came early!” you slowly make your way back to the table, peter trailing after you like a puppy.

“what do you mean?” it was as if you could hear the pout in his voice, so you don’t allow yourself to look back.

“you’re… very distracting.” you make sure your tone is soft, you didn’t mean it in a negative way and you wanted peter to know that.

“am not!” he takes your hand, turns you around, and suddenly, you’re inches away from him again.

“seriously!? look at what you’re doing!” this time, you couldn’t help but giggle.

“there it is.” he smiles softly, appearing pleased.

“there’s what?”

“that laugh i’ve been waiting to hear all day.” you’re pressed against one another, his warmth surrounded you. “permission to lean in, m’lady?” dork.

“permission granted.”

he leans in, your chest feels warm as your lips make contact. 

he cups your cheeks to pull you even closer, if possible, as if letting you go would be the end of him. your hands curl into his hair, you begin to feel goosebumps wherever his hands traveled; down your waist, approaching your thighs as he drew lazy patterns with his fingers.

you could never truly get over the way your lips pieced together perfectly, how it felt like his were caressing yours ever so softly.

whenever your lips part, he whispers soft words you can barely understand, like he’s taking it all in. he finds himself grinning into the kiss, which was apparently infectious, because so were you.

“told you! distraction.” 

“oh, shut up.” he says, before pulling you in once more.

taglist : (send me an ask to be added hehe !) @live-laugh-lovejoy @tomsholland2412 @parkerpeter24 @herpeanutzombie

a/n : tysm for reading :) pls reblog to support your writers !!! requests are open !

fade away - mcu!peter parker

pairing: mcu!peter parker x black!reader

summary: you never forgot peter after stranges spell but even after he promised to find you and make you remember, you did what was best for him and let him move on.

warnings: angst upon angst, heartbreak, one-sided love???, lovers to strangers sort of ???, idk what ever this is it needs a trope.

a/n: i have so many ideas for that cafe scene at the end of nwh thats it’s honestly ridiculous. i was also supposed to post this a couple days ago but life absolutely kicked my ass so it got delayed but i hope that y’all enjoy this.

the day the world forgot peter parker…

i didn’t.

i remembered every freckle on his face, his uneven nose, his chestnut hair, his beautiful brown eyes, and that little scar above his eyebrow, i remembered everything even his deepest darkest secret.

i remembered his promise, the last things he told me before he left.

“i’ll come find you and i’ll make you remember, i promise”

the words never left my mind, always on a constant loop no matter what i was doing or who i was with.

i had to continue daily life just like he did, i had to go to work and school so that i could live. no matter how hard it was to continue daily life without peter, i did it because i had to and not only was i protecting myself i was protecting him.

there were many night where i stayed up late staring at his contact in my phone, contemplating on wether i should call him or not and each time i couldn’t find the guts to do it.

everyday i walked into the same shitty café i called work, i fed the same older people who were regulars and the absolute best people ever, they made working in the cafe a lot more bearable.

i was talking to my favorite regular omie, she was an older black lady who came in every morning for a glazed donut, a french vanilla latte, and good conversation. i love talking to her, she always made the best conversations and always kept it real no matter what.

as i was talking to her i heard the bell ring “i’ll be right back with you omie” i say and she waves “don’t worry baby take all the time you need, he’s a cutie by the way” she says and i laugh before shaking my head.

i grab my pad from the counter and walk over to the register. when i look up it feels like all time had stopped, all air from my lungs had disappeared and my body went stiff.

peter was standing right in front of me with a small smile on his face, the same smile he gave me before he swung off into the distance.

“im so sorry uhm what can i get you” i say finally snapping out of my trance “no no you’re fine, can i get a black coffee please” he asks and i nod, writing it down on the pad. “would you like anything else” i ask looking up at him and he shakes his head “no thank you” he says, his smile growing.

“what’s your name” i ask and his smile falters a little and my heart drop to my stomach, “uhm peter” he says quickly and i smile at him “ok one black coffee for peter, that’ll be two dollars” i say and he hands me a five, “uhm you can keep the change” he says and i look at him “are you sure” i ask and he smiles and nods.

“ill have your coffee ready in a minute” i say and he nods. i walk over to the machine and i grab the pot and pour his coffee in a cup, i grab a top and make sure it’s secure before putting a sleeve on it.

i walk up to the counter “black coffee for peter” i say and he smiles before walking up to the counter. “thanks” he beams as he grabs the coffee, “you’re welcome have a good day peter” i say with a smile and he nods before walking out of the cafe.

i watch as he walks down the street and my heart shatters in my chest “there’s a story there” i hear omie’s a familiar voice fill my ears and i look up “between you and that boy there’s a story” she inquires with her chin resting on her head.

“i don’t know what happened or what the story is but what i do know is that boy still loves you and you still love him” she says and i smile as a tear falls down my cheek. “i love him so much but what i’m doing is to protect him” i express and she nods.

“you’re such a good person baby and you’re holding yourself back from love, you sitting here and watching him fade away because you’re protecting him, if anything you’re hurting the both of you” she explains and i sigh “y/n i know your hurting, i can see it and he’s hurt too, it was written all over that boys face y/n, behind that smile he’s hurting too” she explains and the tears just keep coming.

“like i said i don’t know the whole story but he’s lonely in a world full of people and so are you, you need someone and he needs someone too” she continues finishes and i’m wiping all of my tears with dry, scratchy napkins from behind the counter.

“jesus” i mutter as i continue to wipe my tears, thankfully we’re the only ones in the café “that was a lot but i needed to hear it, thank you omie” i thank with a nod.

“of course baby, now i have bingo with the girls but i’ll see you tomorrow at the same time” she says as she gets out of her chair, she grabs my hand and gently squeezes it with a smile before walking out of the café with her walker.

after omie leaves the cafe is very empty, a few people walk by and no one really comes in. the owner tells me to close early so i do, as i’m cleaning up i see a line of police cars speeding down the street and i know that peter isn’t far behind.

i fish down in my pocket and grab my phone, i unlock it and find peters contact. i stare at it for a minute, my figure hovering over the call button. i press it and like i expected it goes straight to voicemail line it did when we were together.

“hey pete, i know you are out their saving the city but if we could meet up and my job tomorrow uhm and talk i’m not working so we won’t be interrupted, if not that’s fine but that’s all uhm good bye”

adorbs

thinking ab peter having a bad tiring day and reader giving him face massages and body massages after they take a bath ‼️

pairing: bf!peter parker x reader

w/c: 780

a/n: hi anon!! i loved writing for this request sm so thank u for sending it <3 i did, however, completely forget to write abt the part about them taking the bath together. im so sorry 😭 but i hope u still enjoy :(( about one spider-man kiss and a ton of domestic!peter

peter knows exactly what he needs right now after a long day. 

there’s only one thing in the world that could make up for having a shitty day and that’s you. 

but unfortunately for peter, when he patters into your shared apartment, you’re nowhere to be found.

“babe?” he calls out. 

he strips himself of his shoes and walks down the short hall to your bedroom, only to find the closet open and your work clothes missing. peter skrinks at your absence and pouts, “great.”

he ponders about taking a nap, but it’s a quarter to nine and he’d rather be awake when you arrive home. 

when his stomach growls, he realizes he’s gone almost an entire day without a proper meal, save for the granola bar you shoved in his hand before he kissed you goodbye. 

as he enters the kitchen, he finds a note left on the counter, scribbled in your handwriting,

“emergency shift at the hospital, back by 9 tonite. food in the fridge, love you!”

peter frowns at your note, sticks it onto the fridge, and pulls out the meal you prepared for him.

he heats up the food and chews the stale chicken slowly. he really misses you. even with your bland food and lack of seasoning, he still enjoys anything from you. you try your best for him. 

when he’s finished cleaning his dishes, peter debates on showering. he wants to wait for you, to take a nice hot shower with you, and clean each other’s stress away. but he’s really stinky from work, and he’d rather just go to bed with you. so he undresses and takes a long shower alone.

—

peter’s prayers are answered when he reenters the shared bedroom dressed in pajamas. 

“hi baby,” you chirp. you take off your glasses and set the book you were reading aside. 

peter’s heart swells at the sight. you’re laying on your side of the bed, hair in a bun, away from your face. you’re dressed in your boyfriend’s plaid boxers and a geeky t-shirt you stole from his dresser.

the tv is playing some rerun of your favorite tv show as he crawls himself across the bed and plops himself in between your open legs. 

peter nests his heavy head upon your pelvis and lets out a deep sigh. your palms run down his clad back, kneading the tense muscles.

“did you eat yet?” he tries to nod his head, “yea, chicken was good, super tasty, thanks, y/n/n” he replies.

he may or not be telling you the whole truth. you’re cooking wasn’t amazing, but he would never tell you that. 

peter flips himself over, staring at you adoringly upside down. your soft hands trace his buff arms, comfort spreading throughout his skin from your touch, “what happened today, petey?”

he exhales, furrowing his brows, and squeezes his eyes shut. he juts his bottom lip out while you weave your fingers and pull through his damps locks. 

“everything went wrong today. everything,” he takes a deep breath, “i was late for biochem, had a pop quiz for psych. not that it was hard but still. i forgot i had tutoring today too, so i'm out fifteen bucks. and we were understaffed for work, so that was a bust. so many mean customers in queens,” he takes a look at you, “we should move somewhere else.”

you snicker at his comment and slide your fingers over his funky left eyebrow, smoothing out the knit and massaging his temples, “yea, like where?” 

you love all versions of peter, but you think this is your favorite. relaxed at your touch, devoting himself wholeheartedly to you. he’s embraced and fully engulfed by you, like putty in your hands. 

“like,” your boyfriend seems distracted, voice deep, staring at you with nothing but affection, “sunnyside? maybe?” peter licks his lips and clears his throat, “just somewhere safer, nicer. for you.”

you’re beaming down at his face; your warm hands cup his cheeks while you land a long and overdue tender kiss upside down. you feel peter smile into the kiss, exhaling through his nose in contentment. 

you keep your hands on his face and gently caress the soft skin as you pull away.

“that sounds nice,” your heart squeezes at the thought as he continues, “we could settle down there, have a family, you know? white picket fence and all. ‘m picturing you in your hot scrubs, bringin’ home the bacon. and i’ll be at home, taking care of the kids.” 

you’re giggling at the scene as you chime in, “and we could have family dinners every saturday night, or- ooh! i could take yoga classes sunday mornings and-”

peter snickers at you, “what you need are some cooking classes.”

gasping, you flick his forehead, “you said you loved my cooking!”